


If You're Lost and You Look, You Will Find Me

by allrounderinsane



Series: Release [1]
Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: Australia in England 2012, Champions League 2012, F/M, World Twenty20 2012, Yorkshire 2012
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2018-04-11
Packaged: 2018-04-24 06:54:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 66
Words: 54,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4909591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allrounderinsane/pseuds/allrounderinsane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say that twenty-three is the year of your life, the year you most fondly remember when you're old and grey. On the cusp of twenty-three, anything's possible. Mitchell Starc & Joe Root friendship fic, quirkyrogue's brainchild.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is 100% dedicated to quirkyrogue. You have provided all of the research which fueled this story. Thank you for your unwavering dedication to this intriguing friendship and also for just being plain awesome. You’re an absolute treasure. Title sort of pinched from ‘Time After Time’ by Cyndi Lauper.

Relief. That is Mitch’s primarily emotion when he finally arrives in Yorkshire. He’s finally here. Actually, properly here – and not leaving again until the summer is done, that’s the plan. It’s late in the evening by the time that Mitch finally gets inside his new home. It’s small, but if it had been any bigger it would have felt eerily lonely.  
Mitch finds himself standing on the veranda looking out over Leeds. The air is chilly, but he’s surprised that it’s not as dark as he would have expected for that time of night. Gaining experiences of every English – that’s what this is all about, right. So far, Mitch is only relieved, tired and already homesick and missing Alyssa.  
Perhaps that wasn’t the greatest start, he presumes as he falls into bed. The sheets are white and still bare creases, but they manage to still feel homely, even though they aren’t actually home. Maybe Mitch is too tired not to be appreciative. Just as his head rests on the pillow and his eyes fall closed, his phone beeps.  
Mitch looks at it immediately, hoping it’s Alyssa, although he really has no idea what time it would be in Australia. He grabs it and raises it into his eyeline. The number is unfamiliar.  
_The lads have heard about your adventures. You’re the only squad member ever to be deported from anywhere, please realise that. Hope you’re finally safe and sound. See you at the ground someday hopefully. Joe Root : ) ___  
Mitch smiles slightly.  
_Thnx mate _  
Although he appreciates Joe’s proper grammar, Mitch can’t bring himself to match the standard. He sends the message, then finally is allowed to sleep peacefully.__


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the wonderful quirkyrogue, who inspired this fic, and always makes me smile. Hope you all enjoy! : )

When Mitch arrives at Headingley, he’s not entirely sure what feeling he will get when he sets foot on the ground. He’s excited, for sure, but there’s a kind of nervous anticipation twisting in his gut. Mitch strolls confidently across the carpark, with his hands in his pockets. Especially seeing as he is only wearing thongs, he avoids the puddles littering the asphalt. The ground is almost eerily empty, with the Yorkshire squad in Bristol, for a match he should have been playing in. Briskly walking towards the nets, Mitch hears whispers from the passing staff that the team – his new team, he realises – have forfeited their first innings. It’s unusual, he feels, but after losing the entire first day due to rain, he’s sure it’s for good reason.

He’s glad that nobody’s stopped him yet, but then again dismayed that he’s barely received more than a casual nod in greeting. He’s the new boy around here, Mitch is well aware, but seeing as the rest of the squad is absent, he feels even more detached. That is, of course, until he spies the three wooden stumps at the other end of the practice wicket, imperfectly straight. Mitch seeks a ragged red cherry from the pile of black netting resting against the clipped grass. He snatches it, determined, and paces out his run. Then, Mitch turns, sprints in, and bowls. The delivery is full, as planned, and just clips the top of leg stump, setting it slightly back. Mitch smiles. His first ball on Yorkshire soil has been beautifully bowled.

He thinks he’s going to like it here.

\---

With the squad not around, Mitch is largely left to his own devices. Getting deported and therefore missing the Bristol match, he learns, is actually a blessing in disguise, giving him plenty of opportunity to fully recover from his jetlag and get in some valuable bowling practice in the Headingley nets. Mitch follows the score avidly, which is not hard to do, because staff are constantly wandering around chatting about the progress. Regardless, he’s fascinated, and desperate to gain a connection to his new teammates. Mitch can’t be the outsider Australians for a whole rainy summer. He needs to fit in and just be one of the boys. Mitch struggles socially, sometimes, because he’s never been the man to start the conversation. He’s a follower, not a leader.

Mitch loves to just blend in, which has often been difficult at six foot five-and-a-half inches tall. Being six foot five-and-a-half inches tall with an Aussie accent in Yorkshire, Mitch hopes, will not be a bridge too far. On the final days, he’s captivated by whispers of his new team’s run chase, in pursuit of over 400. The news of an innings of 160 by his fellow countryman and New South Welshman Phil Jacques both excites and comforts him. Although wickets eventually fall, it’s too late, and Yorkshire storm home by four wickets. Mitch texts Jacquesy, to offer his congratulations. He doesn’t receive a response, not that it bothers him, for he knows the man will most likely still be in the dressing room, being showered with liquor and singing the night away. 

When the sun begins to dip, Mitch sits down against the net, with a cricket ball in hand. He tosses it up, then catches it. The footsteps Mitch hears don’t really bother him, because it’s been customary for people to be moving about. Yet, the pace is slower than the rushing staff, so he looks up. It’s Joe, sporting a grin.  
“Hey,” he greets Mitch, “Your first Yorkshire victory”.  
The bowler laughs as Joe pads into the net.  
“Hardly,” Mitch modestly points out, “I wasn’t even there”.  
“Neither was I,” Joe admits, “But I’m taking it personally”.

“Yeah, but that’s ‘cause you’re a Yorkie boy,” Mitch comments.  
He folds his arms and refuses to meet Joe’s gaze, sheepish, embarrassed and shy. Joe remains silent for just a moment, acknowledging the truth in Mitch’s words. Then, he shuffles closer, trying to catch his attention. Mitch glances up. He relaxes his arms, and nods at Joe. Taking the invitation, the blonde-haired man moves into position, sitting down besides Mitch.  
“We wouldn’t have signed you if we thought you weren’t good enough, Mitchell,” Joe mentions, “You’re good enough. Welcome to Yorkshire”.

Mitch grins, cheekiness causing his eyes to glimmer.  
“Want me to prove it?” he asks.  
Joe laughs and rises to his feet.  
“I’m always up for the challenge”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Joe Root missed the match in Bristol, I’m not exactly sure why, I could have put in more research, but I just really want to get this out there, and I like the idea that Mitch met Joe before the rest of the team. If anybody knows more about the real situation, feel free to tell me, although I will admit to taking a bit of poetic license here.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For quirkyrogue, as always. Hope you like it Xx

Joe stands, sword of willow raised, guarding his stumps at the other end of the net. He proudly wears his white suit of armour. Mitch stands appropriately far away, at the end of his run. Mitch tosses the ball into the air once, and promptly catches it in the same stand. Joe gives a nod, indicating that he is ready. There is a wide grin on his face. Thoughts race through Mitch’s mind as he runs in. He really should have decided what ball he was going to bowl earlier, he reflects in hindsight. On the stumps, he chooses. Mitch bowls – full, as he’d planned, although not as straight as he had intended. Joe watches intently. He shapes to flick the ball behind square of the legside, using half of his bat to cause it to trickle into the heaped net.

“Dot ball, I’d reckon,” Joe comments, “Not bad”.  
He bends over and collects the ball, before turning around and tosses it back to Mitch. He catches it casually in front of his chest.  
“Thanks,” Mitch says with a smile.

\---

The next morning, the Yorkshire bus is due to arrive back at Headingley. Joe and Mitch agree that they will both be there, to meet with their teammates and applaud them on their marvellous win. Bathed in glorious morning sunshine, they stand in the carpark, waiting. Joe leans back against the wall. With his blonde hair glowing in the light, he almost looks like an angel to Mitch.  
“What are you looking at?” Joe asks with a cheeky grin, having caught Mitch staring.  
“Oh,” Mitch blushes, “Just the sun on your face”.  
“Shouldn’t you be used to sunshine?” Joe queries.  
“Ah, Australian stereotypes,” Mitch mentions, “We do experience the common concept of winter”.

“Ever snowed at your place?” Joe queries.  
Mitch shakes his head.  
“I win,” Joe says, beaming with pride.  
Their conversation is interrupted when the Yorkshire team bus pulls into the Headingley carpark. 

Mitch applauds loudly as Joe whistles them in. Eventually, the bus parks and their teammates disembark one by one. Joe moves forward and begins congratulating them, shaking their hands, patting their shoulders and the occasional hug. Mitch hangs back, unsure of what to do. They are his teammates, after all, but he’s not part of this bubble. Joe’s words from the previous evening, though, ring in his ears. With newfound confidence, Mitch steps forward. Jacquesy shakes his hand.  
“Starcy, great to have you around, finally,” he greets him.  
Mitch smiles.

They engage in polite conversation. It isn’t long before Joe is once again by his side, suggesting that they move into the dressing rooms, where the team briefing is about to occur.  
“It’s your first one, Mitch,” Joe reminds him, “Don’t be late”.  
Mitch makes sure to slowly breathe in when he first enters the dressing room.

He knows he’s going to have to get very familiar with this place. Mitch hangs back, waiting for everybody else to find their seats before selecting his. They duly oblige. Joe gestures towards the empty nook.  
“That’s yours, Mitch,” he offers, “If you’d like it”.  
“Thanks,” Mitch replies, walking over to it and sitting down.  
He scans his eyes around the dressing room. Even though he’s never been here before, it feels strangely familiar. Mitch can feel the history in the walls, reaching out and embracing him, welcoming in. He’s sure he’s going to like it here.

\---

When Joe had rung the lads the night before to congratulate them on their victory, he’d been sure to mention that they make a special effort to welcome Mitch. He’s finally with them after having to fly around the world and back again. The least they could do, Joe reckons, is ensure that he feels extra welcome. Dizzy stands up to address the lads.  
“Firstly, I have to acknowledge what we’ve just achieved. Congratulations, boys,” he is met with raucous cheers, “But, as the old man in the room, I’ve got to bring you all back to Earth. We’ve got Hampshire next, and they present their own challenges, but first”.

Dizzy grins and gestures towards Mitch, who sheepishly folds his arms.  
“We’ve got a new boy in the house,” he announces, “Mitchell Starc, welcome to Yorkshire. It’s certainly nice to have another Australian around, somebody to back me up when the one-day series comes around”.  
There are a few mock jeers from the boys, prompted by chuckles, before they fall silent.  
“Mitch,” Dizzy invites, “Would you like to say a few words?”  
Joe mouths in Mitch’s direction: ‘Sorry’. He dismissively shakes his head in response. Mitch stands, to the applause of his new teammates, and rolls over towards Dizzy.

“I’m a man of few words,” he admits, “But I just wanted to thank you for giving me this opportunity. I hope that we can play well together as a unit and I hope that I can contribute. Thank you for welcoming me in, I’m sorry that it took me a while to get here”.  
Mitch lets out a chuckle. Dizzy slaps him on the back.  
“Well, we’re happy to have you, Mitch,” he says.  
“Welcome to Yorkshire,” Joe calls out, before counting in the rest of the team.  
“Welcome to Yorkshire,” they chorus.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short and sweet chapter for the lovely quirkyrogue. Hopefully this will satisfy some of your curiosities.

On the evening before the match against Hampshire, Joe has invited Mitch over to his flat. He’s promised a few hours of video games, before he’ll leave so that they can bot get to bed early. When Joe hears the doorbell ring, he curses, because he’s only just climbed out of the shower. His blonde hair is wet and tangled, a white towel is wrapped around his waist. Joe sighs and fetches his phone. He quickly taps out a text message, then sends it with a sigh of relief.  
 _If that’s u @ the door, u might want to make yourself scarce 4 the next 5 mins or so. Not quite ready. Sorry. Joe _  
Once Joe places down his phone, he dresses himself as quickly as possible, hoping that he hasn’t upset Mitch for seemingly trying to get rid of him.__

__Eventually, he runs to the door and opens it. Mitch is still there, leaning back against the door. He’s fiddling with his phone, but looks up upon noting Joe’s presence.  
“Sorry,” he apologises in a tone of great sincerity, “I had just gotten out of the shower. I didn’t exactly think answering the door in a towel would give the right impression”.  
Mitch giggles.  
“Come in, Mitch,” Joe gestures him inside.  
“Don’t worry about it,” Mitch reassures him, “I’m sure your bare chest is fine to look at, but thank you for sparing me that sight nonetheless”._ _

__They both laugh and it feels appropriately comfortable.  
“I do have one question,” Joe mentions, “Mitchell or Mitch? I started with Mitchell because, you know, that’s your name. But, Joseph’s my name, and barely anybody’s called me that since school. So, I sort of just shortened your name because I’m used to it with my own, without even noticing”.  
Mitch places his hand on Joe’s shoulder to cease his concerned rambling.  
“I don’t mind,” he admits, “Call me whatever you like”.  
Joe laughs, grateful.  
“Well, I’ll be calling you the conquered soon enough,” he points out._ _

__Joe strolls over towards the couch and Mitch follows him, trailing at his heels. The television is already on and the controllers are waiting on the small wooden coffee table.  
“Are you ready for war?” Joe questions in a grand voice.  
“Of course,” Mitch responds, “I’ve got to settle the score after you smashed me around the nets the other day”.  
Joe giggles.  
“That’s just par for the course for me,” he confesses as they sit down, picking up their controllers.  
Before they begin, Joe smiles at Mitch. He pauses, noting something in his eyes that causes him to pay attention._ _

__“It’s nice to hang out with you,” Joe comments, “You’re good company, although I’ve got limited experience. Hopefully, I'll be able to confirm my suspicions. Besides, I hope that you’re completely terrible at video games, because I like to win”.  
“So do I,” Mitch sheepishly admits, but his words are soon drowned out by the loud noises of the game._ _


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to quirkyrogue for your never-ending support of this fic.

Joe wakes up on the morning of his first match back with anticipation twisting in his belly. He thrives on this feeling, of anticipation and nerves, of excitement and anxiety. It’s Joe’s fuel, what keeps the fire burning that prompts him to push on during the tougher days. If his back injury flares up, it’s motivation. Joe knows that this feeling is equal parts wonderful and awful. He’s perfectly comfortable with that paradox and he always has been. Joe believes it reflects life. If the worst thing that ever happens to him is that he once gets a duck or drops a catch, then he’s confident that he’s definitely blessed. Joe’s pre-match morning is like most others. Yet, there’s one other task which he adds to his routine.

_C u @ the ground. Ur 1st day of play as a Yorkshire cricketer. _  
Joe sends the text to Mitch, before dropping his phone into his bag and leaving his home. Their previous night had been enjoyable, because, as it turns out, Mitch is a particularly competent gamer. The battles had been fierce and their banter had been suitably humorous that neither had really ended up keeping score. Joe wants to make the new Australian feel welcome. At the thought that he’s also gained a friend, he smiles.__

__\---_ _

__Mitch is undoubtedly nervous when he arrives at the ground. Thankfully, Dizzy’s made him 12th man for his first match for Yorkshire, supposedly to ease him into the county cricket season. Mitch is reasonably confident that it won’t turn out like that, because his new teammates will ensure that the new boy brings them a drink at the end of every over. That’s probably what they’d do back home, anyway. Mitch isn’t really sure what it’s like here just yet. Everybody seems nice enough and very friendly, but he’d never accuse his teammates back home of not fitting into those categories. Of course, Mitch has grown up with many of them, and it’s that lack of familiarity that’s making him nervous._ _

__Surely, he concludes, in time, they’ll get to know each other well enough. Spending an evening gaming with Joe had been plenty of fun and had done wonders to lessen his nerves. They’d naturally gotten on when they’d both been on the outer during that Bristol epic, and Mitch is grateful that the friendship seems to be continuing. He needs at least one good mate around this place. Sure, Mitch knows Jacquesy well from back home, but it’s different when it’s the captain, although he’s pretty sure he wishes it wasn’t. He strolls with pretend confidence towards the home dressing rooms. Mitch is becoming glad for the days without his teammates around, because it gave him the opportunity to get lost on multiple occasions without embarrassment._ _

__“Hi there, mighty victor,” a familiar voice greets him.  
Mitch turns his head to see Joe approaching him, wheeling his coffin behind him. Joe pauses and lowers his bag, before bowing. Mitch laughs.  
“Just a fluke,” he comments, “You’ll get me next time”.  
Joe gives Mitch a friendly slap on the shoulder.  
“Have more faith in yourself,” he encourages, “Where’s the mean fast bowler gone?”  
Mitch sheepishly giggles.  
“I don’t want to be mean when I don’t have to,” he admits._ _

__\---_ _

__Mitch’s first official day as a Yorkshire cricketer has plenty of twists and turns. He watches the action with anticipation, eager to develop that all-important connection to his new team and their fortunes, The first wicket falls in the third over and Mitch finds himself loudly cheering from his seat on the boundary. He’s summoned to his feet and carries with him his trays of drinks for the celebrating players. Mitch jogs to the middle. Joe greets him with a friendly pat on the back.  
“Thanks mate,” he comments, grabbing his labelled drink bottle.  
Joe squirts the chilled water down his throat._ _

__Mitch is grinning, relieved. Pulled into the huddle by necessity, he can feel the heat of the bodies around him. With his free hand, Mitch reaches out and gives Ryan, the successful bowler, a low-five in congratulations. Soon enough, Carberry is at the crease, and Mitch jogs back off to his seat. He knows what he’s got to do to make a good impression. Mitch needs to be a good twelfth man. He sits down for a moment, rubbing the back of his neck with a towel. Mitch casts his glance towards the empty drink bottles. He lifts the tray and strolls back off towards the dressing rooms to fill them back up again. Mitch has barely started the task when he hears cheers once again from the middle._ _

__Players are rushing in to congratulate one another. Sighing softly, Mitch shoves the brightly-coloured, individually-labelled plastic drink bottles back into their holder. He briskly jogs out of the dressing rooms. Mitch eventually makes his way to the middle.  
“Sorry,” he gushes, as his teammates lunge towards him, fetching their drinks.  
Joe is widely grinning.  
“Didn’t you have any faith in our ability to have more than one early wicket, Mitch?” he remarks.  
Mitch giggles, a little sheepishly.  
“No, no,” he insists, “You’re creating consistent pressure from both ends”._ _

__There are a few laughs from the Yorkshire players. Joe slaps Mitch on the lower shoulder.  
“Don’t worry, mate, when it’s you charging in, they’ll be absolute carnage,” he reassures him.  
Mitch then has to leave, and he takes the team’s drink bottles with him. On his way back to the boundary, Mitch passes Simon Katich, the incoming Hampshire batsman.  
“Starcy,” he briefly greets, “Nice to see you”.  
“Yeah, nice to see you too,” Mitch replies, but Simon is already gone._ _

__\---_ _

__By the evening, Katich is 180 not out and the euphoria of the early wickets has long ago evaporated. The Yorkshire players return to their dressing room. Mitch is waiting there, with eleven tall glasses of icy water waiting on the benches. Joe grabs his, then saunters over towards the twelfth man, waiting awkwardly in his new nook, lacking personal touches. Joe’s hopeful that it will change soon enough as Mitch makes himself more at home within these walls. This place means a lot to Joe. He’s grown up here. The home dressing rooms at Headingley are undoubtedly his home. It’s his cradle, and it’s hard for Joe to fathom that there could be people in this world who haven’t been embraced by the comfort of these walls._ _

__He approaches Mitch and sits down on the floor in front of the bowler’s long legs. Joe crosses his own legs, rocking his knees like the fluttering wings of a butterfly. He clutches his ankle, covered by a thick, sweaty sock, in his free hand.  
“You’re a very good twelfth man,” Joe comments, “Your little incident this morning is forgiven”.  
“Thank you,” Mitch replies, his voice grateful and warm.  
He coyly smiles off to the side.  
“On both counts,” Mitch adds._ _


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to quirkyrogue for your delightful comments. I'm back again, with a shorter installment.

Mitch and Joe walk out onto Headingley side by side, flocked by their Yorkshire teammates. Mitch allows himself a moment to survey the mighty arena, and soak in the polite applause from the stands.  
“How do you like it?” Joe speaks up, “You’re a Yorkie boy now”.  
Jacquesy places them apart in the field, unintentionally, with Joe in the gully and Mitch down at fine leg.

After a few expensive wicketless overs, he finally receives the signal to warm up. Mitch swings his arms, bends over to stretch his back and does a few high jumps with his knees tucked up. The seventh over is to be his first. Mitch jogs in towards the centre and Joe gives him a high-five on the way.  
“Show ‘em what you’ve got, Mitch,” he encourages before finding his fielding position.  
Mitch stands at the top of his mark, shaking his wrists, and is eventually chucked the ball. He catches it, a good start, he reckons. Mitch places his fingers against the seam, then loses himself in the moment as he runs in and bowls. It’s a dot ball, and Mitch breathes a soft sigh of relief as he wipes his brow with the back of his wrist.

“Onya Starcy,” Joe calls out, his voice echoing throughout the ground, “Dot ball, great start”.  
Mitch flashes him a grin before marching back to the top of his mark. He bowls an uneventful two-over spell before being taken off again, to be brought back at the death. Mitch is building pressure in the 35th over when the moment finally comes. Whiteley mistimes one, and the catch is safely held by Lyth. Mitch fist-pumps the air, then rushes in towards the fielder. The crowd roars. He is swept up in the emotion of the moment as Mitch is surrounded by the warmth of the bodies of his teammates. Joe embraces him briefly, then provides a strong high-five.

“Your first Yorkshire wicket,” he points out, “Congrats, Mitchy boy”.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For quirkyrogue, as always. I hope that you can keep up with the new chapters.

By the end of the day, a seven-wicket win is achieved, with two-and-a-bit overs to spare. Joe hits a four to secure the victory, then charges down the pitch to embrace Gary. The Yorkshire team huddle around the doorway to the dressing room. Grins are worn on all of their faces, displaying equal parts joy and relief. Mitch is waiting on the edge of the group, applauding loudly like his teammates. When Joe makes his way back into the dressing room, Mitch slaps him on the back.  
“Well played, mate,” he mentions.  
Joe beams at him, the adrenaline of the victory still coursing through his veins.  
“Thanks, mate,” he responds, “Time to party”.

Joe and Garry stroll off towards the showers, while Anthony gratefully unstraps his pads.  
“Care for a beer, Starcy?” Jacquesy queries, dangling a green glass bottle in his direction.  
“Oh, yeah, why not?” Mitch accepts the drink, “Thanks, mate”.  
He moves over into his nook, pulling out his kitbag and removing his shoes. 

Mitch rests his feet on his bag and pops off the small gold lid of his beer bottle. He leans back as he takes his first sip. Mitch has somewhat of a mixed relationship with alcohol. He enjoys it in context, as a reward, as a token of mateship and fondness. When Joe comes back into the dressing room, fully dressed, he is met with cheers. Jacquesy slaps him on the back, then places a bottle into his hands. Joe steps over, with a smile on his face, towards Mitch. He lowers himself to the floor and leans back against the other man’s kitbag. Joe cranes his neck, grinning at Mitch. He removes the lid from his beer bottle, then raises it towards Mitch.  
“Cheers,” Joe declares.

Mitch smiles and clinks his bottle against Joe’s.  
“Cheers,” he replies, before they both take a hearty gulp of the liquid of victory.

\---

The celebrations aren’t particularly rigorous, because they’re leaving for Hove the following morning. Mitch and Joe only have one beer each, then settle back for an evening’s entertainment, prompted by Jacquesy’s suggestion that Gary show off his performing arts skills. He grooves around the dressing room for hours. Joe chuckles as Gary sings to himself. He thinks he’s bringing out the full catalogue of rock songs. Admittedly, Joe’s not quite sure, because all of the lyrics are slurring together. He’s definitely had more than one beer, he’s pretty confident of that fact. When Gary strips off his shirt, Jacquesy hands him back the garment and declares the party over.

“How about,” Joe suggests, leaning into Mitch’s cheek, “We go back to my place and keep things kicking?”  
“Alright,” Mitch agrees, before he even thinks about it.  
They pack up their bags, bid their farewells, then depart the dressing room.  
“He was my friend first, you know,” Gary yells after them.  
Mitch hopes that the anger in his voice is just the alcohol talking. He certainly doesn’t mean to steal Joe from anyone.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for quirkyrogue and Sofie for all of your support. I love writing this for you.

Mitch next awakes with a grey blanket loosely draped over him. The surface beneath him is not quite smooth and not quite soft. Mitch looks around drowsily, then sees Joe’s face come into view above him.  
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he greets with a wide, cheeky grin.  
“What happened?” Mitch sits up suddenly.

“Whoa, don’t worry, everything’s cool,” Joe insists, “We came back here, had a few bottles of ciders, played more games. You beat me again, you’ve definitely got magic fingers, Mitchell Starc. It got late, you got tired, so I just let you crash here. Mum would say I’m a bad host, because I only offered you this couch, and you were too tired to demand better”.  
The events come flooding back as he explains. Mitch allows himself to breathe out in relief.  
“All good?” Joe queries.  
“All good,” Mitch repeats, “Thanks for letting me crash here”.  
“No problems,” Joe tells him.

“I should be off, I need to pack before we leave,” Mitch mentions, “Do you mind if I use your bathroom before I go?”  
“Yeah, of course, that’s fine,” Joe permits, “It’s just in there through the bedroom”.  
Mitch kicks off the blanket and stands, stretching out his long legs. He gingerly strolls across the small apartment. Mitch enters Joe’s bedroom. It’s nothing remarkable, the bed is still unmade, framed family photographs line the top of the chest of drawers. There is something, though, which Mitch recognises as out of the ordinary. A single large white teddy bear is in the middle of the bed.

“Oh yeah, that’s Basil,” Joe casually admits.  
Mitch’s eyes dart towards the other toys, strewn across the floor. Joe wraps his arms around Mitch’s waist and presses his cheek against his arm.  
“They fall off in the night,” he whimpers, “It makes me sad because my babies leave me”.  
Mitch resists the urge to giggle, instead smiling fondly and ruffling Joe’s hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully that posts makes more sense now, quirkyrogue! I couldn't resist.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in the one night! I often post what I've got to make sure that it's being regularly updated, but then that inspires me to write even more and this is what happens . . .

They arrive at the ground within the same minute, and wave at one another as they stroll across the carpark, wheeling their bags behind them.   
“Morning, Mitch,” Joe greets him, “Long time no see”.  
They both softly laugh. Many of the other team members are already gathered around the bus.  
“Did you two arrive together?” Adam asks, eyebrows raised.  
“No,” Mitch mentions, keeping his answer strictly factual.  
Adam scoffs, then steps over to Joe, curling his arm around the golden-haired man’s shoulders.

Mitch’s heartrate rises as he pulls him away. From personal experience, these private chats rarely have positive consequences.  
“Rooty,” Adam asks Joe, quietly enough that nobody else can hear, “What’s going on with you and the Aussie lad?”  
Joe resists the urge to gasp and immediately jump to defence, because he knows it ends badly.  
“I am not sleeping with Mitchell Starc,” he insists, in a reasoned and measured voice, “You lads can think whatever you want, but it’s not going to happen”.  
Adam fondly and lightly slaps where Joe’s neck meets his shoulder, twice.

“Good lad,” he comments, “Because he leaves at the end of the summer”.  
Adam casually twists away from Joe. They walk back over towards the group, just as Dizzy announces that they’re ready for boarding. As the Yorkshire squad board the bus, Mitch leans in close to Joe, as close as he can, considering the height difference.  
“What was Adam talking to you about, if you don’t mind me asking?” he enquires as they drop their bags and pad up the steps.  
“He was asking me if,” Joe trails off, sheepishly giggling, prompting Mitch to briefly panic, “If we were, you know, sleeping together”.

Mitch’s cheeks glow vivid scarlet.  
“Don’t worry,” Joe reassured him, “I set him straight”.  
He lets out a laugh.  
“Literally and figuratively,” Joe adds.

Adam taps Mitch’s shoulder as he walks past.  
“Don’t worry, lad,” he says, “We know you’ve got a thing for blonde cricketers. We just didn’t want to see our boy’s heart broken when you leave at the end of the summer”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, I have a new favourite line: _'We know you’ve got a thing for blonde cricketers.' _I have been waiting to use that for a while! That was my sole motivation for introducing this minor plot speedbump. Cliffhanger will be addressed soon enough, I promise.__


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for quirkyrogue and Sofie for your continued support of this fic. Your kind words inspire me.

Some could call the Sussex match a bit of a trainwreck. However, despite going at nearly nine-an-over, Mitch refuses to see it that way. Joe has taken two wickets and is the top scorer in Yorkshire’s first innings. In the dressing rooms afterwards, the mood is reflective and a little down. A few run outs had made it more interesting, but they have still miserably lost. Mitch sits down, leaning back against his kitbag. Across the dressing rooms, he spots Gary, and he’s suddenly reminded of us comments from the previous match.  
 _“He was my friend first, you know” _  
Mitch knows he’s the outsider here, no matter how welcome they make him feel.__

__Just as Adam said, he’ll be leaving at the end of the summer – even earlier, in fact, because he’s been selected in the Australia A squad to face the England Lions. Mitch hopes to come back next year, but only as part of the Australian Ashes squad. In that capacity, he’s the enemy. No matter what friendships he makes this year, they will never be permanent. Therefore, Mitch doesn’t find it necessary to fracture anything that probably cannot be put back together. He adores his new friendship with Joe, but if he must sever it for the greater good, he’s willing, at least in principle. Yet, as Mitch stands and walks over to Gary, he isn’t so sure.  
“Hey mate, can I have a word?” his tone is casual enough._ _

__This redeems his opening line, making it significantly less confrontational. Gary glances up from where he’s packing up his kitbag.  
“Yeah, what is it, mate?” he responds.  
Everything currently seems nice and friendly, yet Mitch isn’t yet relaxed.  
“The other night,” he’s quivering, a nerve-wracking sign of vulnerability.  
“Was I drunk?” Gary asks with a sigh.  
“Sorry,” Mitch says, “You may have been”.  
Gary runs his hand over his face, then threads his fingers through his hair._ _

__He places his palm down on Mitch’s shoulder.  
“I say stupid stuff when I’m drunk,” Gary admits, “What mortifying thing did I utter?”  
“You said,” Mitch doesn’t really want to say it.  
Yet, Gary’s apparent remorse gives me confidence._ _

__“That you were Joe’s friend first,” Mitch confesses.  
“Well,” Gary chuckles, “I was, we grew up together, but Mitch, you’re nearly seven foot tall. There’s plenty of you to go around”.  
Mitch finally allows himself to breathe out.  
“Thanks mate,” he says.  
From across the room, Mitch sees Joe grinning at him. He grins back at his friend._ _

__\---_ _

__Yorkshire achieve a relatively straightforward victory over the Unicorns up in Scarborough on Sunday. Mitch takes three wickets and goes for four-and-a-half runs an over, an effort which he’s overall pleased with, especially after his disastrous performance in the previous match. Early wickets prompt a few jitters in the dressing room, and Joe waits padded up. Mitch sits beside him, fiddling with a tatted white ball. He’s not really sure what kind of waiter Joe is, so he decides to keep quiet. If Joe were Michael Hussey, he’d be struggling to get a word in. It’s his birthday, Mitch remembers of his Australian teammate sometime through the innings, and vows that he’ll text him to wish him a good one once they get back to the hotel._ _

__Adam is batting, with Gary. Mitch is lost in his own thoughts when Joe suddenly curls his arm around him.  
“What are you thinking about, Mitchy?” he asks.  
“Ah, not much, Joey,” Mitch replies with a soft sigh, “That was all good and that that Gary wasn’t too mad after all”.  
Joe gives a nonchalant chuckle.  
“Mate, you shouldn’t worry about them,” he insists, “They might tease you, but they don’t mean it. Relax, mate”.  
“Promise you’ll tell me if I get in the way,” Mitch pleads._ _

__“I’m an honest man, Mitch,” Joe points out, “I promise”._ _

__\--_ _

__Eventually, Joe doesn’t have to bat, and Gary walks off the field 103 n.o. The entire Yorkshire squad rise to their feet in jubilation to applaud their teammates as they stroll back to the dressing rooms. After the post-match pleasantries, they retreat to celebrate. Mitch hangs back, tired after three matches within the same week, and slowly sips at his beer while some of the others dance. Joe, it turns out, isn’t that bad of a dancer after all.  
“Come on,” he encourages, “Get up and dance”.  
Mitch giggles apprehensively, but nonetheless extends his hand, and Joe helps him up. Mitch has a bit of a groove, while Joe twirls to the point that it almost falls over, then laughs and laughs and laughs._ _

__“You know,” Joe admits, “We’ve all heard that you’re a bit of a twinkle toes back home. Strut your stuff, Starc”.  
Mitch shakes his head, but jumps twice, crossing over his ankles, before spinning. Joe cheers.  
“Not bad,” he comments, his tone jovial, “Some fancy footwork. Just don’t break those long legs, we need them all season”.  
“Don’t worry, Joe,” Mitch reassures him, “I’m not planning to break anything”._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There you go! Hope you liked it (and thought I addressed the cliffhanger well enough). Hopefully I'll be able to keep things a bit more light-hearted from here on in, at least for a little while . . .


	11. Chapter 11

Later that night, most of the lads have retreated, but Gary is still dancing. After making a century in victory earlier that day, he’s blissfully joyous and, thankfully for Mitch, blissfully generally sober. There’s a plastic cup of lemonade in one hand, as Gary sways in the centre of the dressing room, mumbling a tune to himself. The others are largely quite amused, as they usually are by Gary, but they don’t show it. If he’s happy, they’re happy, and they’re thankful enough for his innings not to question him. Eventually, Joe stands, and pads over towards Gary.  
“What’s the song, mate?” he asks, very casually.

Suddenly, Gary pulls Joe into an embrace, spilling some of his drink onto the carpet. Jacquesy rips off the sheet of paper towel, ready to clean it up as soon as his teammates are far enough away that he’s confident he won’t get stepped on. As captain, it’s his responsibility to make sure that they don’t completely trash the place. Gary sings loudly, twirling Joe across the dressing room.

_Oh! I wanna dance with somebody_

_I wanna feel the need with somebody_ __  
_ _

Gary dramatically throws back his head, then looks up again to face Joe. Mitch is pretty sure that the lyrics is actually 'heat', not 'need', but he's not entirely sure how he knows this.

  
_Yeah! I wanna dance with somebody_

_With somebody who loves me_

  
Gary pulls away from Joe. They both bow as their teammates loudly applaud, some of them whistling to demonstrate their approval. Mitch is enthusiastically joining in, caught up in the excitement in the room and the euphoria of the victory. He’s comfortable being by myself, allowing Gary to borrow Joe as a swashbuckling dance partner, but he’s not quite sure why.

\---

They return to their hotel in dribs and drabs, as it’s close enough to the ground that they can walk if they want. Dizzy stays to supervise the seemingly never-ending celebrations, while Jacquesy chaperones a party of about a third of the travellers back to the hotel. Mitch is tired, and wants some sleep, so he opts to leave.  
“I’m off,” he informs Joe.  
Mitch doesn’t ask Joe’s coming too, because he assumes that he won’t. Joe and Gary have continued their Whitney Houston inspired dance party. They’re having a very, very good time, and the rest of them are too, including Mitch, but fun is coupled with exhaustion, and for Mitch, exhaustion is winning.

Joe waves.  
“See ya,” he says, barely even missing a lyric.  
Mitch walks alongside Jacquesy during the brief stroll back to the _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _hotel.  
________ “I’ve noticed that you’ve gotten quite close to Joe,” the captain comments.

“Yes,” Mitch admits.  
“He’s a good bloke, real determined,” Jacquesy mentions, “The two of you are about the same age, it’s good for you to get on well. I’ve been over here for enough years that I feel at home, but it’s good for you to have someone to take you under their wing and show you the ropes”.  
“Yeah,” Mitch agrees as they turn the corner into their building.  
They bid each other goodnight, then Mitch returns to his room, which is lonelier without Joe.

\---

Joe returns to his shared room with Mitch sometime in the very early hours of the next morning. He tries to be as quiet as possible, trying not to wake the tall Australian in the bed by the window. After a moment, Joe realises that Mitch’s eyes are wide open, staring through the round window high on the wall, from where the moonlight floods in.  
“Hello,” he greets quietly, “I thought that you would be asleep”.  
“We’re staying in a place with free Wi-Fi,” Mitch mentions, “I took advantage. It’s the morning back in Australia, so I Skyped my mum, then Alyssa”.  
He pauses.

“My girlfriend,” Mitch adds.  
“I know,” Joe tells him, “Everybody knows”.  
“Oh,” Mitch says, as Joe grabs his pyjamas and heads into the bathroom to change.  
He returns just over a minute later, wearing blue and white baggy shorts and no shirt.

“How?” Mitch asks as Joe slips himself into the other bedroom.  
“What?” Joe giggles, “How did I change my clothes? How does my chest exist?”  
“No,” Mitch quietly laughs, “I meant, how did you all know about my girlfriend?”  
“Because everybody knows,” Joe responds casually.

“Really?” Mitch questions.  
“Of course,” Joe turns to him, beaming, “It’s really cute, you know. Two international cricketers who grew up together falling madly in _lurve _”.__  
He extends the final word, then chuckles.  
“Yeah, I guess it is quite cute,” Mitch admits sheepishly, hoping that Joe can’t see that he’s blushing.  
The room falls quiet, and Joe thinks that Mitch may have nodded off to sleep, but then he glances over to him, and notices that he’s still staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide.  
“You know,” Joe confesses, “Clare Connor was my celebrity crush growing up. Other kids were into the Spice Girls, but of course I was obsessed with the captain of England”.

“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” Mitch admits, “You’re a true cricket tragic”.

__________\---_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

The next day, they return to Leeds. Their next fixture is a Championship match at Headingley. Joe is relieved to be back home, and to be back playing four-day cricket. It’s in this environment that he has the best chance of proving himself to be chosen for the England Test side. That’s his ultimate dream, his ultimate goal. It’s cheesy, but Joe honestly dreams about it. He dreams the good, the glorious, the bad and the ugly. Joe dreams that he’s scoring centuries, playing match-winning knocks that are masterclasses of steel and resolve. He also dreams of scowling, sneering bowlers, but he’s in a three lions white shirt, so he always wakes up with a smile.

As they stroll off the bus, back in his beloved Yorkshire, Joe feels Mitch’s arm slung casually around his shoulders.  
“Look, it’s nothing special, but would you like to come back to my place, seeing as we’ve got the afternoon off?” he asks.  
“Yeah, of course,” Joe agrees with a grin, “That’ll be fun”.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this has been a long time between drinks. Sorry.

As soon as Mitch opens his front door, he senses a pang of regret for inviting Joe over. There are plates piled up in the sink that almost look like there’s too many for one man who’s not there half the time, anyway. Clothes are strewn across the floor – he doesn’t quite remember leaving them in the living room, but that’s another matter.

 “Sorry,” Mitch apologises, his cheeks turning pink, as he bends over to collect his clothes from the floor.

Joe chuckles and slaps him on the back.

“Mate, we’re early twentysomethings, I wasn’t expecting a palace,” he admits, “Don’t worry about it”.

This relaxes Mitch, and he grins to convey his thanks. He chucks the clothes away so that at least they can’t be seen. Mitch and Joe stroll over to the small couch, which is only just big enough for two people. They sit down, side by side.

“Sorry, I have playing cards,” Mitch admits with a laugh, “That’s pretty much all”.

Joe turns to him, with a cheeky grin.

 “So that’s what you telling wanted me for,” he teases, “To play my games”.

Mitch giggles, and holds up his hands in mock surrender.

“Sprung,” he confesses, jokily, “I’m blatantly using you to get access to a PlayStation”.

Joe slaps Mitch on the shoulder, sporting a massive grin.

“Don’t worry, Mitch, I ought to get in touch with the simple things,” he mentions, “I forgive you”.

Mitch smiles gratefully for a moment.

“Come on, Mitch, we’ll pull out the cards,” Joe decides.

“Alright, Joey,” Mitch agrees, “Thanks”.

He stands, and strolls through the flat, to where he’s stashed the pack of playing cards that came free on the plane. Mitch finds them, in the top drawer, because that’s the logical place to keep them when you live alone, right? Maybe he’ll become a master of Solitaire by the time he gets back to Sydney once the summer is done. When Mitch returns, Joe is sitting on the floor, cross-legged like a schoolboy. He’s rubbing his palms together in anticipation of the battle ahead.

“Mitch, pride is on the line here,” Joe declares, “Are you ready for war?”

Mitch has never been one for bravado.

Yet, he’s captivated by the way that Joe views all of life as an adventure, a welcome challenge, and so he beams.

“Of course, Sir Joseph”.

+

There’s something that Mitch finds utterly captivating about watching Joe bat. Maybe it’s that he’s become a close friend of the man, and therefore it’s enjoyable to watch him go about his beloved craft. Joe is Mitch’s friend, and his teammate. Joe’s the man, above all else, who makes him really feel like a part of this place. He always craved to fit in here (the summer would have been more miserable than English weather could be, otherwise), but Joe makes him feel welcome, like this is his home. Mitch bats at nine in the Yorkshire team, so he spends plenty of time sitting around in the dressing room while Joe bats, having opened the innings.

He politely declines offers from his teammates to play cards to bide the time. That’s his and Joe’s game, after all, for the hours that they can spend on his living room floor. Mitch chooses to sit on the balcony, with his feet up, watching the show. Yet, as Joe’s innings progresses, nerves creep into Mitch as his friend approaches the eighties, towards the end of day two. Joe requires seventeen runs for his century, with four overs remaining in the day’s play. Mitch can’t help but feel his heartrate rise a little, watching Joe bat in this tense situation. Dot ball, two, FOUR – Mitch leans forward in his seat. He claps his hands together, his applause echoing through the dressing room.

“Yes, Joey boy!” he calls out.

Maybe Mitch imagines it, but he swears he sees Joe turn towards the dressing room, just for a moment, before moving back into position to face the next delivery. Joe plays out a dot ball, followed by a crisp stroke resulting in three. Jonny safely negotiates the end of the over. Eight more runs required, three overs left in the day – Mitch claps thrice.

“Keep it up, Joey!” he encourages loudly, “Nearly there”.

Joe plays out four good deliveries from Hall. The pressure out in the middle is building in keeping with Mitch’s rising heartrate, and adrenaline levels. He’s a bowler, after all, Mitch doesn’t have any clue as to how Joe himself is actually feeling. Yet, Mitch is a bowler, it’s his job to be positive when it’s one of his own, and anything but when it’s not. Finally, Joe scampers through for a single. Mitch can hear himself breathing out quickly in short-lived relief. Jonny plays out the end of the over, leaving Joe on strike for the next, off which he achieves singles from both the first and final deliveries.

Mitch’s nerves have taken over. His applause can wait, until the job is done, until it cannot be reversed. Five runs remaining, a single over left in the day’s play – Mitch’s mind is drawn back to a sunny Sydney afternoon, in the January he turned thirteen. He smiles, instinctively, contented by the memory and excited by the idea that, if Joe has even half the career of Steve Waugh, then he will have done very well indeed. He safely takes three off the first delivery of the over. Then, Jonny plays it out until the end of the day, running a two and then smashing a four. Joe walks from the field, ninety-eight not out. Mitch stands, and wholeheartedly applauds. He watches as Joe walks from the ground after a hard day’s battle. His blonde hair glows underneath the warm sun, like the golden crown of a victorious warrior.

+

It’s not uncommon for Mitch and Joe to spend their evenings together, at one or the other of their places. It’s supposed to be Joe’s turn to cook for Mitch.

“After your knock today, mate, I’ve got to help prepare you for tomorrow,” Mitch insists, though, and, with a smile, Joe agrees to be treated, “I can’t promise you anything flash, though”.

Joe gives Mitch a hearty pat on the shoulder.

“I’m sure it’ll be just fine, Mitchy boy,” he mentions, before the two of them head back to Mitch’s flat.

At his host’s request, Joe relaxes on the couch. It’s really far too short for him, and that certainly makes it far too short for Mitch, but the pilling and the stains on the blue fabric cover meant that the local op shop had been almost willing to give it away, as he explains while preparing dinner, and thus Mitch snaffled it up.

“Oi, shove over, now,” he asks as he walks over to it, where Joe is lounging, stretched over, carrying two plates of food.

“Thanks for this, Mitch, I really appreciate it,” Joe says as he swings his body around so that his bare feet are touching the scratchy carpet on the floor.

“No worries, mate,” Mitch asserts, handing over one of the plates, “I mean, you’re the king. You’re the boss. You batted really well today. You’ll get your hundred in the morning, without a doubt, and then you’ll go on. What is it that they call that here?”

Joe smiles fondly, shaking his head as he starts to eat.

“A daddy hundred?” he suggests, “A big daddy?”

Mitch’s eyes light up.

“That’s the one,” he confirms, “Thanks. I am trying to learn your ways, you know”.

Joe giggles.

“And now,” he puts on his best Attenborough voice, “The migrating Australian witnesses the native Yorkshireman in his natural habitat”.

Mitch chuckles, and starts to eat.

“Are you, you know, nervous?” he asks, after a little while, “About tomorrow?”

Mitch pauses, hoping Joe understands what he’s referring to. Joe twirls some pasta around his fork, and he seems to be studying it intently, so Mitch hopes that he doesn’t notice that it is actually last night’s leftovers. Finally, Joe glances up at Mitch, and nonchalantly shakes his head.

“I can’t be,” he outlines, his tone thick with steely determination, “You see, bowling different to batting, although admittedly I’m not much of a bowler. When you’re bowling, right, the bloke at the other end can take the wickets. You can be on absolute fire, but if he takes the wickets, there’s only a certain amount of wickets to take, so you can’t get them if he gets them first. With batting, though, except for in chases, there are runs there for everyone. The power to achieve, and achieve greatness, is always in your own hands, and you don’t get any second chances”.

Joe shovels the pasta into his mouth, and chews casually, while Mitch stares at him in awe.

“Maybe this is just a reflection on the quality of my offies,” Joe comments once he’s completed his mouthful, “But you don’t seem to be too bad a bat. One day, when you’re in the nineties, even if you have to sit there overnight like me now, don’t worry about it. I’m no Latin scholar, but que sera. With the bat, you’ve always got a say in your own destiny, Mitch, and you’re the only one who can achieve greatness for yourself”.

“Thanks, mate,” Mitch responds gratefully, “But I think I’ll leave the hundreds to the batsman”.

“No reason why you have to,” Joe reasons, “And, if you need some guidance, I’m always a willing master”.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For quirkyrogue, as always. I am really trying hard to be more prompt with updating this fic, because I have written a lot of the upcoming chapters and I can't wait to let them free!

Mitch isn’t quite sure how he and Joe ended up in this small, dark room. He’s not even entirely sure where the room is. Mitch is trying to get his bearings based on the equal parts moonlight and floodlight seeping in from the ground outside, but he’ll never be a navigator by the stars, and he still has no idea. Yet, he trusts that Joe knows where he is, and that’s enough. Mitch is probably far too drunk to mind about anything else. There are some other teammates around, he thinks. Bodies dance around like shadows in the dark, all clutching glistening glass bottles. If they were in Sydney, Mitch would probably feel more comfortable. He would know exactly where he is and, even if he didn’t, he’s sure he would appreciate the mystery of the situation a whole lot more, knowing someone he loves is close by if he needs to escape.

It’s been a few hours since their match against Northamptonshire concluded. While it had been a draw, Joe had scored a first-innings century, and therefore celebrations were in order. A few beers were shared in the change rooms, before the team members wandered off around the ground.

“Joe?” Mitch spontaneously speaks up, “Where are we?”

“The costume cupboard,” Joe casually reveals, “To spice things up a bit”.

Mitch is aware of an autograph cupboard in the away dressing rooms in Sydney, but he’s pretty sure that nobody’s hiding costumes in a dark room.

“What sort of costumes?” he nervously asks.

“Feather boas, top hats, that sort of things,” Joe answers, “Gives the lads a bit of a laugh. If you make a duck, you get bright yellow wings to wear”.

He chuckles.

“Are you familiar with that costume, Joey?” Mitch questions.

His heart starts to beat a little faster, concerned that his unexpected cheekiness will not be appreciated. Joe’s eyes gleam, then he shakes his head.

“Unfortunately, sometimes,” he admits, “But not if I have anything to say about it”.

 

+

 

Mitch awakes to the sound of the rain on the morning of their match at Headingley against Northamptonshire, and before he even gets out of bed, he texts Joe for his local boy’s perspective.

_What’s this weather gonna do Joey?_

The response is very prompt.

_Not lookin good : ( : ( : (_

Mitch returns a few more sad faces, before getting himself ready anyway, and waiting patiently for Joe to come and pick him up to take him to the ground. It isn’t a long drive in Joe’s car, usually, but the traffic is slower because of the weather. They are stopped at lights, and Joe is drumming a tune with his thumb against the steering wheel, and Mitch finds himself whistling along. When they realise they’re in unison, they stop and laugh for a moment, because continuing on, until the lights turn green and Joe turns the corner.

“If it buckets all day,” Mitch starts, when they’re only a block away from the ground, “What do we do?”

Joe casually shrugs his shoulders.

“Sit around, chat, play cards, eat,” he suggests, “The usual rain delay things. Make tents out of cricket equipment and hide under them”.

“We could have a competition,” Mitch promises, although he’s really, honestly, joking.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” Joe gushes as he parks his car, and Mitch doesn’t quite know why he’s so excited by the prospect of absolutely no play.

They drag their coffins from the car, where they had been wedged into the small boot. Bowing their heads, Mitch and Joe briskly scamper to shelter.

“Morning, lads,” Adam greets them, as they head into the dressing rooms.

Mitch leaves his kit, unopened, in his usual spot. He shoves his hands into his pockets of his tracksuit top, and wanders out onto the balcony, to gaze out over the rain-drenched field. Mitch is whistling the tune that they’d been creating in the car.

“It’s stuck in my head now, Joey,” he admits with a laugh.

Over the next half an hour, their teammates filter into the rooms. Mitch stays out on the balcony, watching the rain fall. It’s unwanted, yet undeniably peaceful.

 

+

 

The rain doesn’t go away, and already the cards, and the pessimistic attitudes, have come out, after barely an hour. Times start getting delayed, and delayed again. A handful of very dedicated spectators turn up, huddled under umbrellas. Mitch scoffs at their commitment, then strolls back in from the balcony, hands in his pockets. Joe strolls up to his side.

“Hey Mitch,” he offers, “Wanna build a fortress? More specifically, I’m challenging you. Gary will judge, we’ll have a competition, Dizzy gets the final say”.

Mitch grins, and his fingers link with Joe’s extended hand.

“What’s the time limit?” he asks.

Joe casts a grim glimpse out towards the ground.

“By the looks of things, we’ll have all day,” he mentions, “How about half an hour?”

“Sounds good,” Mitch agrees, “We have a battle”.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For quirkyrogue, as always. A short and hopefully sweet chapter acknowledging the fact that I haven't updated in over a month. Sorry.

Mitch can’t help but feel the anticipation thick in the cold air. He tries not to look at Joe out of the corner of his eye as he rummages through his kit, tossing out any item that could vaguely be of use. Pads are helpful, he decides, of any description, as well as his bats. That’s an area in which Joe will have the upper hand. Finally, it dawns on Mitch that the kitbag itself would be useful. Grunting, he lifts it out in front of his chest, upending it, allowing his gear to clutter on the carpeted floor, like the clapping of the heavy rain. Mitch yearns to place his items back into a neat order. However, he’s also acutely aware of the urgency of creating the best fortress possible, to have a hope of defeating Joe, and therefore he reluctantly allows anarchy to reign.

+

On the other side of the dressing room, Joe has already identified that bats are the answer. He’s got four of them, whereas Mitch has only got two, so that’s an advantage that the slightly older man can’t regain. Yet, Joe’s not believing that brute strength will be victorious. Rather, he feels that creativity will be more successful, and more fun, as well. Joe props up two of his bats against one another, in a triangular structure, but they promptly fall. Pulling his brows together, Joe frowns as he tries again, this time adding the extra two bats for increased support. When he straps his thigh pad around the joined handles, it works, although the structure is still somewhat unstable. Joe gets down onto the floor. He shimmies his elongated body in underneath the bats. They fall on top of him, and Joe listens to Mitch’s giggles. Promptly, he lets out a chuckle himself, before pushing them off him and standing.   
“Try again,” Joe decides, “I’ll get there. It’s just for fun, right?”  
“Of course not,” Mitch chides back, maybe a little too sharply.

+

Once the half an hour is complete, Gary orders both Mitch and Joe to step away from their creations. He folds his arms grandly in front of his chest and steps in back to judge. The continuous pounding of the rain outside creates an ominous and suspenseful soundtrack to the ensuing action.  
“And here with have the creation from Joseph Edward Root,” Gary announces.  
Joe’s fortress is mighty, propped up against the locker, made primarily from bats and adorned with many gloves and thigh pads. Like the star on top of the Christmas tree, his box sits atop it, prompting a giggle from Gary while he inspects the creation, and commentates for the group its many features.  
“Sky’ll come knocking when you’ve finished playing, Gaz,” Joe comments, with a chuckle.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another ridiculously short chapter, just to make sure that I am regularly updating. Apologies apologies apologies. Thank you very muchly for putting up with this. I'm on holidays currently so plenty of writing time!

Mitch has utilised the assistance of a lot of strapping tape and bandages. His creation stretches, therefore, from floor to ceiling, and uses his full gamete of equipment.

“I formally award the competition to Joseph Edward Root,” Gary announces, “Because somebody, admittedly probably only a child, could actually hide in there”.

“Fair play,” Mitch agrees, shaking his conqueror’s hand, “Well done, Joey”.

 

+

 

The match is eventually called off midway through the afternoon, and there’s a genuine deflated mood amongst the team. Squad members dawdle out of the dressing rooms. In the end, it’s only Mitch and Joe left behind, with their mess of their kits spread out all over the floor.

“So Joey,” Mitch asks, “What do you want to do now?”

“We could go back to my place,” Joe offers, “Drink beer. Eat leftovers. Play cards. I don’t know. Whatever you want”.

“Sounds good,” Mitch agreed with a smile, “Thank you for having me”.

“It’s my pleasure,” Joe agrees, mirroring his grin.

 To the soundtrack of the tumbling rain, they pack up their kits, and head off outside.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For quirkyrogue, who always deserves to smile. This chapter is longer than the last one, but still not particularly long. We'll get beyond this rainy day in Leeds eventually, I promise, hopefully.

When Mitch and Joe step from the grandstand, there are a few small children waiting in their hoodies. Mini bats peer out from the sleeves, with adjoining permanent markers.

“Excuse me,” one of them asks, “Could we please have your autographs?”

Mitch hangs back, as Joe steps forward, beaming.

 “Sure,” he agrees.

One of the children catches Mitch’s eye.

“You two please, if that’s alright,” he requests.

Finally, Mitch grins, and takes the pen from his hand. He signs his name, and it’s far more recognisable as those words than the others already on the bat.

“Are you batters or bowlers?” Joe asks, making friendly conversation while he signs the autographs.

Mitch doesn’t know what to say. He allows Joe to do all of the talking, because he recognises that he can do it so utterly effortlessly, he can smile genuinely and make these children feel special, like he’s gifting them these moments of his time with the generous compassion of his pure heart. In fact, to be fair, Joe makes everybody in his presence feel like this, Mitch included. He stands there with a smile on his face while Joe chatters. Eventually, a parent walks across. He shepherds the children away, to get them home and out of the rain, but not before they thank Joe wholeheartedly, and he does the same in return. It’s fame and it’s stardom, but in its absolute purest, most innocent form. Mitch smiles as the children with stars in their eyes, chattering excitedly, as they walk away through the rain. They fill him with joy, because he remembers being that little, and that enthusiastic.

 

+

 

The rain doesn’t relent. Eventually, Joe steps out from under the awning, without his kitbag. He swirls, then beams at Mitch, who grins back.

“Come on,” Joe suggests, “This isn’t going to lighten in a hurry”.

They sprint back to Joe’s car, and frantically climb inside after shoving their bags in. By now, it’s approaching evening, and the traffic coming home after the weekend is heavy. Joe and Mitch watch the world go by during their elongated journey back to Joe’s building. They arrive in the carpark, and Mitch leaves his kit in the boot before they head up to Joe’s apartment. He lets them back in, and they amble inside.

 “Make yourself at home,” Joe urges.

He moves over to the kitchen, as Mitch sits down on the small couch.

“I’ve got beer if you want it,” Joe reveals.

“Sounds good,” Mitch decides, “We pretty much had the day off, after all”.

 Joe brings two bottles of beer over to the couch, opened, and sits down beside Mitch, offering one up. He takes it from him.

“Thanks,” Mitch says, “Cheers”.

They clink bottles, smiling, then both take their first sips.

 “You were really good with those kids today,” Mitch tells him.

Joe casually shrugs his shoulders and takes another sip of his beer.

“I remember being like that,” he mentions, “It’s part of the job description. You see players who get all worked up over kids like that”.

 Joe shakes his head.

“I’m not like that,” he affirms, “Because I was that kid once. I’m lucky, I’m not a megastar, they don’t stalk me”.

“You’re not a megastar yet,” Mitch corrects, “You will be someday”.

 There’s a light of humility glowing in Joe’s eyes.

“Do you really think that?” he wants to know.

“Of course,” Mitch vows, taking a swig of his beer.

“That’s very nice of you to say, Mitch,” Joe responds, wearing a familiar grin, “I really appreciate it”.

 “No worries, Joey, I believe it".


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a long time between drinks. Thank you very much for your patience.

Yorkshire’s trip to Wales is an unofficial holiday for the team. Thirty-four overs are bowled on the first day of their match against Glamorgan. Mitch manages two wickets before the rain comes in. When play is suspended, he finds himself walking off the field with a slight smile on his face. Joe places an arm around him as they stroll casually back to their dressing rooms, trying to be unalarmed by not only the present weather, but what is forecasted to come.

“Don’t feel bad about getting comfortable in here, boys,” Jacquesy mentions, wistfully gazing out onto the field, fiddling with a ragged cherry, “It’s going to be a long few days”.

Fears of match-fixing keep them away from their phones, so it isn’t long until a pack of cards is pulled out.

“Anyone for a game?” Gary asks, “Mitch? Joe?”

They glance towards each other, seeking for the other’s answer. It’s their game, they already know. Whether they can share it has never been discussed. It’s Joe, eventually, who takes the lead and nods. Mitch smiles in agreement.

“Should be fun,” Joe agrees.

They sit down on the dressing room floor. Mitch hasn’t crossed his legs since before they were this long and, at least for a moment, he cherishes the innocence of it. Gary starts building up the cards, into a precise, layered structure. Shifting to get comfort, Mitch moves his foot, and Gary’s house blows over.

“That’s the thing about a house of cards,” Joe laments. “It’s delicate and a masterpiece, but then it’s gone in less than a second.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a longer chapter! This has always been my intention

On the morning of day four, Mitch awakes to the sight of Joe, bat in hand, in front of the mirror. His friend is decked out head to toe in a bright yellow raincoat, gumboots and swimming goggles. Drawing his eyebrows together, Mitch sits up against the hard pillows.  
“Good morning,” he greets groggily.  
Joe spins around quickly, his cheeks a little pink.   
“Good morning,” he echoes.  
Joe ambles towards the foot of Mitch’s bed, beaming.  
“I’ve thought of a novel plan to get some play today.” They simultaneously flick brief glances towards the small window.

Raindrops are still streaming down the glass on the other side of the billowed curtain, just as they had done all night and all the night before. Mitch grins at Joe.  
“I like it.” He throws back the covers. “That could actually work.”  
Mitch swings his long legs around. He touches his bare feet to the scratchy carpet. Mitch runs his hand over his face, then stands, ambling across the small motel room. 

+

It’s a quiet Sunday morning in Wales. Armed with his phone, Mitch is wandering. He knows that the battery is running low. The charger is back at the motel, but as there’s still a few hours before their departure, Mitch knows he’ll have time. He slips it into his pocket and continues walking, eyes raised to the glum sky. The drizzle is finally over, just after the allotted days for the match have been completed. There had been more than a few mumblings amongst the team about that. Mitch knows that it’s nobody’s fault and, deep down, the players and other staff know as well. Nonetheless, dark grey clouds loom in the east. 

They hover above England. 

+

Joe paces up and down the motel corridor, carpet soft underneath his bare feet. He nibbles on his bottom lip as he calls Mitch again, for the sixth time. Joe isn’t sure if he has overstepped the line yet, because he doesn’t quite know where it is. Again, there is no answer. With a sigh, Joe returns to his room and grabs the closest shoes. He doesn’t tell anyone where he’s going, but he doesn’t take his phone. Maybe it’s because Joe doesn’t quite even know himself. He’s just looking for Mitch. Clouds in the east threaten overhead, although it’s, on the whole, a sunny day. Finally. It doesn’t cross Joe’s mind that they would have been much more fortunate to have this sunny day a little earlier.

He just appreciates its glory and gets on with his day. Joe sets off through an unfamiliar town, in search of Mitch. His first port of call is in the direction of the ground, just in case his friend had decided to get in some morning practise. Joe wanders down past the shops, towards the station and the promenade. Beyond, the lazy English coast rolls in to greet him. It is there that Joe spots Mitch’s tall figure, gazing towards the north.  
“Not much of a beach,” he laments, then turns around and beams at Joe. “Thank you for coming to find me.”  
“No worries.” Joe shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly. “When you plug your phone back in, you might find a few missed calls.”

Mitch slings his arm around Joe’s shoulders.  
“Sorry, mate,” he chuckles remorsefully. “I’ll get there next time.”

+

As the coach pulls away from Colwyn Bay, Joe’s gaze is locked on the window. He’s tired, which is odd, because they barely played, so he should be ready to go all over again. Joe rests his head against the chilly window pane. He’s tempted to drift off to sleep, although he doesn’t know why he should be tired, considering that he only spent a few hours in the field in the whole time they spent in Wales. Joe folds his arms in front of his chest, cuddling his torso and drifting off into peaceful slumber. 

+

Mitch isn’t quite sure what to do after a match like that. He’s almost unsure if it really happened, although of course it did. In actuality, they’d played a glorified net session in Wales, following by endless games of cards. Now he and Joe are back in Leeds, after a coach trip of about two hours and twenty minutes. That’s less than Sydney to Canberra. Mitch is consistently amazed by just how small England is, yet how big everybody seems to think it is. While Australia may cover three time zones, and five in the summer, technically time starts in England. The Pacific Islands don’t want to break it to them that the first sunrises are not on British shores.

It’s rather lonely, in Mitch’s flat, when Joe isn’t around, which is why he’s so glad that he’s there so often.  
“You know, I do have my own place to go to,” Joe quips.  
Mitch is nervous for a moment, but these worries dissipate when he spots the giant grin on his friend’s face.

+

Joe can’t watch. Mitch can’t watch. It’s been two whole overs now, but his pads are still constricting his legs, tightly fastened with Velcro.   
“Don’t blame yourself,” Joe mutters to Mitch, in a voice that betrays the fact that he blames himself.  
Mitch gives a solitary nod of thanks, then breaths out slowly and shakily. Three deliveries remaining, five runs required for a Yorkshire victory, with batsmen eight and ten at the crease. One run, change of striker, two deliveries remaining, four runs needed. Mitch’s mind is dragged back to a January night, just before he turned six, with a young Michael Bevan at the SCG. The delighted roar of the packed-in crowd radiating through the television still happily bubbled through his mind.

The brief curl of Mitch’s lips is deflated by a dot ball, although his twisted curiosity is incited. The match is following the script, of sorts. Yet, it is not to be, and with a single it is all over, not quite there. Two runs – not many, but too many. Joe limply squeezes Mitch’s hand under the table covering their legs.   
“We did our best,” he insists feebly, although Mitch is never sure.  
Now, they must rise. They must shake hands with the opposition and offer friendly smiles. For Mitch, it’s a blur, but Joe stays right in front of him the whole way. The blonde hair anchors him down the hard concrete stairs, then back into the dressing room, no warmer than the freezing Leeds air outside. It’s always cold in England.

It’s even colder when you lose, by just that little bit. Joe taps him on the shoulder.  
“Come on, Mitch, you did your best,” he insists again.  
Mitch knows that can’t really be quantified, but he offers a smile of thanks, anyway.

+

They return back to Mitch’s tiny flat sometime just after midnight. After a late match and the sour post-match pleasantries, Mitch is glad to be home. It’s not his home, really, but he thinks of it as such without second-guessing himself, so maybe it is, at least for the time being.   
“Am I coming in?” Joe wants to know, as they rest against his car in the darkened underground carpark.  
Mitch shrugs his shoulders casually and steps away from the vehicle.  
“If you want to,” he offers, “up to you, really. You might be tired after a long day and a long game.”  
Mitch yawns. Joe also shrugs his shoulders and laughs quietly.  
“It’s was only a twenty-over match,” he points out. “I’ll come inside.”

Joe locks his car, then ambles with Mitch up the countless stairs to the flat. Mitch unlocks his front door. He pushes it ajar with an eerie creak, then counts every breath while he reaches around the corner and flicks on the buzzing light. Once the room is illuminated, Mitch lets out a sharp sigh of relief.  
“Mitchell Starc, afraid of the dark,” Joe remarks with a cheeky smile.  
Mitch giggles to dispel his residual nerves, then steps fully inside. Joe passes through the doorway also, allowing Mitch to close the door behind them.  
“What would you like to do?” he asks.  
Mitch swivels around on his toes to face Joe, who once again casually shrugs his shoulders.

“Just hang,” he suggests. “I rather like just hanging with you.”  
Mitch smiles sheepishly.  
“That’s just as well,” he points out, “because I rather like just hanging with you too.”  
Joe grins.

“Then we’re even then,” he mentions.  
“I suppose that we are indeed,” Mitch agrees, ambling through the flat. “Can I get you anything?”  
“Water, perhaps,” Joe requests, “but I can really get that for myself.”  
He strolls into the kitchen and starts opening cupboards.

“I don’t have very many glasses,” Mitch confesses.  
“Don’t worry.” Joe takes down the solitary pair, his fingers curled around them. “I already know. There’s just enough for the two of us.”  
“There is,” Mitch confirms, leaning back against the doors of the empty kitchen cupboards and folding his arms in front of his chest.  
“Would you like water too, Mitch?” Joe queries.  
“Alright, yes, thank you, please,” he agrees with a nod.  
Joe steps over to the sink and pours out two glasses of water, handing one to Mitch.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to quirkyrogue, as ever. This chapter offered the new challenge of writing the action of the cricket match, which I will admit is heavily fictionalised.

Two days after the narrow loss, Yorkshire are back in action again, once again playing at Headingley.

 

+

 

Six balls remaining, twenty-five runs needed for a Leicestershire victory. Mitch’s hands are clammy at the top of his mark when he receives the worn white pill from Joe. He catches it successfully from mid-off, which is the first start. He shouldn’t be nervous. Statistically, the hard work isn’t Mitch’s. Seven wickets down, they’ll need more than a four off every delivery, provided the entire over is legal.

“Come on, Mitchy boy, bring it home!” Joe claps.

They exchange grins. Mitch feels a foot taller than he already is. He runs in, bowls, like he’s done so many times before. The delivery draws a leading edge from Eckersley. Mitch completes his follow through, a little dazed, gulping. His fist is in the air triumphantly as soon as the ball is safely pocketed in Gary’s hands. As Mitch runs in to congratulate the fielder, he feels arms wrap around his torso.

 

“Well done, Mitch,” Joe congratulates, beaming behind him, “I knew you could do it. Bring it home!”

After a few high-fives, they separate again. There is still a match to win, after all. In the taking of Gary’s catch, the batsmen crossed. Mitch ambles back to the top of his mark. The ball is tossed back to him and he once again catches it effortlessly. Mitch takes it in both sets of fingertips. He stretches his back, then strides in and bowls once again. The delivery is short. White hooks streakily and for a moment the ball bobs in the air like Mitch’s heart in his throat, dangerously close to a fielder. The dispersing crowd gulp collectively when it drops in the outfield, scooped just before the boundary rope. Once Mitch is back at his mark again, with the ball in his hands, he takes another deep breath.

 

He runs in, bowls, a yorker just dug out by the batsman. Mitch smiles as he completes his follow-through, then turns around just as quickly. He returns to his mark with the ball in his hands. Three deliveries remaining, twenty-three needed to win. All Mitch really has to do now is keep his foot behind the line and the ball within the guidelines. That’s all they need to get home. Before Mitch starts his stride, he flicks his eyes around the field, to ensure that none of the fielders are out of position. He’s not getting tripped up on a technicality. Mitch bowls, a little shorter than the previous delivery.  Still, White defends, and there’s two deliveries remaining in the match, still twenty-three runs needed.

“Come on, Mitchy boy!” Joe encourages again.

 

Mitch flashes him a grin before he runs in and bowls again. He sucks in a breath as the ball is hit in the air, to his left. Yet, when Mitch’s eyes scan around, it is Joe standing there, stretching up to safely pocket the ball above his head. Mitch fist-pumps with delight and races over to embrace his friend. Joe’s smile is continuous, infectious.

“Knew you could do it, Mitch,” he insists.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Mitch replies.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the ever intelligent, insightful and perceptive quirkyrogue. You're a wonderful friend to me and you have kept this story afloat.

The following morning, the Yorkshire squad assemble at Headingley. Cricket coffins in tow, they pack onto the coach to thunder down the M1, to Derby. Mitch takes up his seat next to Joe. He doesn’t feel the need to ask for permission. They’re friends, and Mitch knows that neither of them would have it any other way. Their knees casually brush in the close confines of their seats, more suited to pupils on school camp than professional cricketers.

“Not far down to Derby,” Dizzy reassures, sitting up the front as he usually does, as coach.

Gary passes down the narrow aisle with a wave. He finds a seat somewhere behind them, although neither Mitch nor Joe spot where. From the carry-on bag stuffed into the pocket of the seat in front of him, Mitch hears his mobile phone beep. Retrieving it, he notices a new text message from Usman Khawaja, his teammate from back home at New South Wales.

_Looking forward to the contest bud. See you tonight. Usman : )_

Mitch smiles, although not with as much relief as he would have when he first arrived. He’s looking forward to catching up with his friend, but he has Joe now, so he’s no longer feeling alone.

 

+

 

When you know somebody well enough, you’re in awe of their strengths. Still, you know all their weaknesses. Maybe even you’ve tried to help them overcome them. That’s the cruel nature of going from teammates to adversaries, although maybe not for bowlers, in theory. When Mitch comes on to bowl, Usman is facing. Mitch bowls on a good length. Usman plays a defensive shot, but it’s forceful enough to just evade the fielder. The batsmen sneak through for a single, and a whole new set of challenges and opportunities present. Usman rests on the handle of his bat at the non-striker’s end as Mitch meanders back to his mark, effortlessly catching the ball from the fielder in one hand. They grin at each other. It’s friendly, not menacing.

“Khawaja 1, Starc 0,” Usman reminds, continuing to smile.

Mitch only laughs, and nods his head in affirmation. Durston plays out two dot balls, then smacks a slightly shorter delivery out towards square leg. Usman is back on strike. Mitch strides in. He bowls even shorter again, yet Usman effortlessly pulls the delivery out through square leg, past the fielder for four. He’s beaming as he jogs down the wicket.

“Khawaja 5, Starc 0,” Usman updates.

Mitch continues to giggle, only with frustration at his own performance. Only one delivery left in the over, and then he’ll get plenty of time at deep midwicket to plan for the next over, whenever that is. Mitch attempts to bowl similarly to the delivery which Durston had hit towards square leg earlier in the over. It’s just a little wider than intended and Usman plays a cut shot to point for one.

“Until next time,” Usman farewells him, before he has to run out to his fielding position on the boundary with a wave.

Mitch stays out of the action during the following over from Sidebottom. Then, he’s not called on again; instead, it’s Joe’s off-spin to slow down the play, in search of a wicket. He waves his arms around, shepherding fielders into precise position.

“Alright, Mitch, cover, buddy, in tight on the one.” There’s an insightfulness and determination in Joe’s voice.

He’d make a wonderful captain, Mitch reflects as he runs with a smile into his fielding position, as requested. Joe bowls a short ball. Mitch would have stepped forward and thumped it onto the leg-side. Usman, however, rocks back again and plays a swift cut shot in the direction of Mitch. He gets down to the dewy grass to clamp down on the white ball and rocket it back to the bowler. Joe accepts it with a grin, mocking removing the bails at the non-striker’s end, for Usman is already safely home. He claps above his head, looking at Mitch.

“Good throw, Mitchy boy!” he compliments. “Keeping it tight, put the pressure on, lads.”

Mitch can’t help but question if he should have been closer, stopping the single together, but Joe’s affirmation puts his doubts to rest.

 

+

 

In the sixth over, Mitch is brought back on to bowl, with a wicket still elusive. Even though it’s still the powerplay, the pressure is already on, with Derbyshire only needing seven-and-a-half runs an over to win, thanks to a solid opening partnership. Mitch is bowling to Usman again. He runs in and bowls a yorker. Mitch is hoping for the surprise factor, pulling his greatest trick out of the bag first up, rather than permitting the set-up. Usman jams down on it, just keeping it out. The ball lobs down the wicket and Mitch bends over to snatch it.  
“Alright,” Usman concedes, “I’ll give you that one.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had a lot of fun with this chapter again, getting stuck into research. Of course, the queen of research is, as always, the wonderful quirkyrogue : )

Mitch waits away from Usman, back to the top of his mark. He effortlessly catches the ball in one hand on his way. Then, with a smile on his face, Mitch pivots and runs in to bowl. The ball pitches on a good length. Usman drives with power, sending the delivery rocketing through the empty covers. It races to the purple boundary cushion. Usman jogs down the wicket with a smile on his face. Mitch grimaces. He places his hands on his head and swirls. Mitch drops his arms back to his sides as he approaches the top of his mark and accepts the ball from the throw of the deep fielder. His next ball is fast, out of his hand almost before he realises. It’s a low full toss, and Usman’s eyes widen as if he’s been caught a little unaware.

Nonetheless, he scoops it out and hits it just outside the circle.

“Two, come on, come on,” Usman beckons his batting partner.

Legs frantically, they scurry through for the double and he is on strike against Mitch once again. His plans for the delivery are floating through his mind as he runs in. The ball is a little wider than Mitch had intended. Usman plays a cross-bat shot, sending it flying up into the dark night sky. The batsman start running, their eyes fixed on the ball. Mitch stumbles around, dazzled by the floodlights. It’s only when there’s a cheer, followed by a roar from the crowd, that he breathes out. Looking straight ahead, Mitch notes that the ball has settled in the gloves of their wicketkeeper, Brophy. He lets out a scream of delight, face red with relief. Mitch fist-pumps as he charges towards his team, who are surrounding him and the wicketkeeper. Finally beaming, he looks out for Joe. Bowling is primal. It’s an instinct within Mitch’s veins.

He approaches his teammates, his hands flaying wildly. Mitch is accepting every handshake sent his way. Joe hugs him tightly, reaching up and ruffling his hair.

“Knew you could do it, Mitchy, good boy, broke the partnership,” he congratulates.

Mitch beams in a response of thanks. It’s only once the pop music dies down that he looks out for Usman. He’s already back towards the boundary, gloves removed. Mitch pauses for a moment, eyes locked on his friend, before the incoming batter arrives at the non-striker’s end and play must resume. There are two balls remaining in the over. Durston is on strike, as the batsmen had crossed in the taking of the high catch. Just like that, Mitch must return to business as usual. There’s a set batter at the crease at the moment. It’s his job to get them out, and the same over and over again. Yet, as Mitch strides on to bowl again, there’s a niggling feeling poking at his ribs. It haunts him how he got caught up in his own celebration, and how Usman left the field so quickly.

 

Something seems unfinished, even though it is done.

 

+

 

Yorkshire win comfortably. Mitch takes another wicket later in the innings. After the match, he retrieves the last two lukewarm cans of lemon squash from the box in the changeroom. Barefoot, Mitch sets off in pursuit for Usman, who greets him with a warm smile and a hug.

“Mate.” They part. “Too good this time. You’re bowling well.”

Mitch offers one of the cans to Usman.

“Thanks, mate,” he says, grinning.

“Thanks, mate,” his friend echoes, popping open the can with a sizzle.

Mitch watches it tentatively for a moment, but only a drip splashes onto Usman’s shirt. He wipes it away with the pad of his thumb, then licks his digit.

“Do you want to wander outside, get some fresh air, it would be good to catch up,” Usman suggests.

“I’d love that, mate.” As they dawdle out of the dressing room, onto the small porch, Mitch pops open his own can of lemon squash. 

He and Usman settle in the deck chairs.

“How’s Yorkshire treating you?” he asked.

“Good, real good,” Mitch answers.

He cups in his hands the can resting in his lap, as he leans back in the chair. Mitch stretches out his long legs, resting his feet on the metal railing.

“Good,” Usman responds, sipping from his can. “I’ve been speaking with Boof a bit lately.”

Mitch smiles at the name.

“Ah, how is the fella?” he queries. 

“Good.” Usman is staring out at the ground. “He’s offered me a job.”

“What? Mowing his lawn or something?” Mitch’s tone is jovial, as he’s a little bemused.

“No,” Usman corrects, serious, “opening the batting for Queensland.”

Finally, he turns to look at Mitch. 

“What do you think about that?” Usman asks.

“Well, it’s always good to be noticed, I guess.” Mitch catches Joe’s eye from the opposite porch, beckoning him over. “I ought to be off.”

He stands, patting Usman on the shoulder as he exits behind his chair. 

“See you around,” Mitch farewells, then walks back to Joe with a wave.

 

+

 

The next morning, Mitch awakes in another too-short motel bed.

“Your phone’s been dinging for a bit,” Joe mentions.

Mitch grabs it from the bedside table.

_Meet me for coffee on Bradshaw Way?_

 

The message is from Usman. Mitch sits up a little suddenly, swinging his long legs around and standing up.

“Usman walks to meet up,” he announces. “What time’s the coach leaving?”

“Not for another couple of hours,” Joe answers. “I’m sure Dizzy won’t mind if you get out of here for a bit.”

 

“Thanks, mate.” Mitch changes from his well-worn, comfortable T-shirt and shorts which serve as pyjamas.

Slipping his feet into thongs, he grabs his room key, then farewells Joe with a wave. Bradshaw Way, he recalls, isn’t far from the ground, in between it and the small motel where they stayed the night after the match. Exiting, Mitch dawdles along until he spots Usman, stirring his latte at an outdoor table.

“Hello, stranger,” Usman greets, smiling up as Mitch sits down. “Thanks for joining me.”

There’s a heavy pause in the conversation.

“Are you really going to move to Queensland?” Mitch finally asks.

 

“Maybe,” Usman admits with a soft sigh. “I’m still trying to figure things out. Boof just seems to get me and my game. Maybe Queensland’s the fresh start I need. We’ll see.”

Even though Yorkshire is becoming a second home, Mitch couldn’t imagine leaving New South Wales. His roots there run as deep as the fig trees in Moore Park, watching over Kippax Lake.

 

+

 

When Durham bats, Mitch takes the second over. It’s become customary, for him to take the second over after Sidebottom. With the frequency of this Twenty20 matches, Mitch is glad he doesn’t mind. He looks to start with a short ball, which sails over the end of the Durham opening batsman, named Mustard. 

“Wide,” the umpire calls, extending both arms.

Mitch keeps his head down as he saunters back to his mark. He accepts the ball back again in one hand, without looking. When Mitch turns, he scrunches up his face briefly and sighs. Starting off the mark sends you swaying, and sometimes you just can’t stop. Mitch lets go of the ball a little too early and it sails past batsman and wicketkeeper. It only, finally, bounces halfway to the boundary. Mitch doesn’t watch as fine leg scurries around to intercept the ball. Meanwhile, the batsman run a leisurely single, like their craft is the easiest thing in the world. Mitch only wishes that he could say the same thing about his.

 

It is a no ball. Mitch already knew that. Before long, there is an arm casually slung across his shoulders. Joe is offering him the tatted white ball.

“You’ve get there, Mitch, you’ll get on the money,” he reassures.

With two pats between the shoulder blades, Joe is gone again. Mitch feels compelled to raise his head and smile, with gratitude if nothing else. He does truly appreciate how hard Joe is trying to reassure him and encourage him. Mitch would expect him to tell him that he’s bowling well, because he’s just not. Technically, his over hasn’t even started yet. Mitch blows out quickly, then runs in again.

 

The delivery hits the pitch, first minor victory, on a relatively straight line, second minor victory. Mr Mustard clips it off his pads for a single. It is an improvement, Mitch knows that.

“Nice work, build the pressure,” Joe calls out from his fielding position.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To quirkyrogue, as ever. Your support and encouragement is always wonderful for me. I appreciate it.

After Sidebottom dismisses Michael Lumb in the first over, Adam Voges comes out to bat. Hailing from Western Australia, Mitch knows of him, but he doesn’t know him personally. Mitch has nothing against the man. He’s not just another batsman, but they only greet each other with a polite smile. Mitch’s first delivery is slightly off-pace. It’s not intentional, and Adam misses the ball, which hits his pads, although clearly sliding down the leg-side. The batsman run through for a single leg bye and now Riki Wessels, the son of Kepler Wessels, is on strike. A new batsman presents new challenges for any bowler. Mitch bowls a ball that’s slightly shorter than a good length.

 

Wessels plays a pull shot, quickly getting the ball to ground, but it can’t beat short square leg, and there is no run. Mitch must repeat the routine over again.

“Nice work, Mitch, keeping it tight,” Joe encourages, clapping his chilly hands.

Rain is in the air. They need to get on with this. Mitch grins at Joe. He bowls another shorter delivery, which is slower than intended. Mitch can feel it as the ball leaves his hand and then as it loops towards the batsman. Wessels hits it a little more behind square this time. He manages to achieve the single, bringing Adam back on strike.

 

Mitch wriggles his shoulders as he ambles back to his mark. The ball doesn’t feel too bad tonight, but the pace isn’t up there. Perhaps he’s just warming up. That’s what Mitch is trying to convince himself. This ball is a little faster, which encourages him, and short again. It’s accurate, which is the main thing. Once again, Adam must play into the leg-side field. Joe, at midwicket scurries in to cut off the single. He tosses the ball back to Mitch.

“You’re doing well,” Joe reassures. “I sense a wicket coming up.

Mitch only laughs. He bowls again to Adam, this time a full delivery on the leg side, for the surprise factor.

 

He taps it between Joe and square leg, allowing enough room to snare the single. Wessels is on strike again, for the final delivery of Mitch’s over. He bowls on a good length. Wessels plays a cross-bat shot, but misses the ball completely and it sails through to the wicketkeeper. Mitch may not have taken the wicket that Joe had forecast earlier. Yet, he feels more confident at the end of the over, when he accepts his cap back from the umpire with a smile of thanks. Joe taps him in reassurance before they run off to opposite sides of the field, in preparation for the next over, when Sidebottom will again bowl to Adam.

 

+

 

Adam is standing on the balcony with his hands in his pockets, watching the rain soak the Scarborough field. Mitch wanders out to greet the fellow Australian, even though they don’t know each other particularly well.

“Hello Mitchell,” Adam greets him warmly, with a grin and a handshake. “How have you been?”

“Pretty good,” Mitch answers. “Yorkshire’s treating me well.  
“I’ll bet,” Adam replies, “you’re bowling well.”

Mitch smiles modestly.

“Thanks, mate,” he responds.

 

Adam shrugs his shoulders casually and returns his hands to the warmth of his pockets.

“No worries,” he insists, “you are. You were tricky to face.”

A pink glow creeps into Mitch’s cheeks.

“You’re a talent, Mitchell Starc,” Adam comments. “A star-c on the rise.”

 

Mitch giggles at the pun, and Adam does too.

“It’s been good catching up with you,” he admits.

“Yeah, you too,” Adam agrees, nodding. “It’s good to see you over here, plying your trade and learning.”

“Yeah, it’s been good,” Mitch agrees. “I’m glad that Dizzy’s having me over here. It’s different from back home, but that’s good, that’s interesting, that’s a new challenge.”

 

Adam smiles at him fondly.

“I love that you talk like that,” he mentions.

“Like what?” Mitch laughs.

“Like you relish the challenge,” Adam explains. “That’s excellent. You’ll need that.”

 

“Oh, thanks.” Mitch blushes.

Behind them, Joe ambles through the changeroom.

“Match has been called off,” he announces.

“Adam, this is Joe Root,” Mitch introduces.

 

They shake hands.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For quirkyrogue, as ever. The T20 circus rolls on to Scarborough and Grace Road as the end of June 2012 fast approaches in England.

With nothing much to do for the rest of the night, players’ families are invited into the changerooms. It’s only then when Mitch feels a little at sea, obviously so far away from home.

“Are you right for the night, Mitch?” Adam queries. “We won’t be out of the ground just yet. Have you met my wife, Kristy, before, Mitch?”

He shakes his head.

“Well, let me introduce you,” Adam invites. “Mitchell Starc, this is my lovely wife, Kristy. Kristy, this is Mitchell Starc, he plays with New South Wales back home and for Yorkshire over here.”

“Lovely to meet you, Kristy,” Mitch responds.

 

“Lovely to meet you too, Mitchell,” Kristy replies.

“And this young champ.” Adam beams at a red-haired toddler playing on the changeroom floor. “Is our son Xavier.”

Mitch smiles at the child.

“Lovely to meet you too, Mr Xavier,” he greets. “I’m Mitchell.”

Xavier giggles and hides his face in his mother’s leg. Adam sits down on the floor, cuddling his son.

“Have you gone all shy, buddy?” he asks.

Kristy sits as well, so Mitch follows their lead.

 

Otherwise, he is just towering over the family. Mitch can’t help but feel a little pang of homesickness, playing with his gut like the striking of a match. He misses Alyssa back home, as well as his parents and siblings, especially his youngest brother, who will no doubt be a few inches taller by the time he returns to Sydney.

“How have you been enjoying your time over here?” Mitch tries to make conversation.

“Pretty good,” Adam answers. “Nottingham’s a lovely place, especially for the family. How about you, Mitch? Are you having any family over while you’re here?”

He shakes his head.

 

“My girlfriend Alyssa’s studying and then she’s back into her own preseason,” Mitch mentions.

“Ah yes, that’s right,” Adam recalls. “Your girlfriend’s a cricketer as well.”

“An exceptionally good one.” Mitch grins. “She does alright, but I do miss her while I’m over here.”

 

+

 

After a long afternoon nap, Xavier Voges is wide awake for a lot longer than his parents want him to be.

“Mitch and I could babysit for a little while, if you would like,” Joe offers.

Adam and his wife exchange a brief glance. Mitch can’t help but smile a little. He is just a little surprised at Joe’s offer. However, Mitch is not going to turn it down now. Instead, he’s marvelling at the way that two people can communicate without speaking. Mitch understands it, and it amplifies the pang of homesickness which Joe has helped him to treat. It’s been over a month in Yorkshire now. As parents, that communication is what forms the foundation of a person. Mitch almost can’t wait.

“Thank you, that would be lovely,” Adam accepts. “We’re staying just down the hall from you, I believe, room 269.”

After farewelling their young son, he and his wife leave the changeroom.

 

Joe continues to beam at the small boy.

“You look like a natural-born babysitter,” Mitch comments, with his own smile.

“I love kids,” Joe gushes. “They’re so innocent and interesting. You should come around and visit my family one day, and see all the cousins and nieces and nephews running around. They’d be fascinated with you. They’d love you.”

He finally glances up from the child.

“I’m serious, Mitch, it would be lovely to have you over, to get you back into the family atmosphere,” Joe insists.

“Thanks, mate,” Mitch tells him.

 

Joe goes silent again, crawling across the carpeted floor of the changeroom. He grabs a soft cricket ball, one of the freebies that would have been given out to the crowd were it not pouring with rain. Joe ever so gently tosses the ball to Xavier, who catches it. He giggles.

“This lad’s a natural,” Joe declares. “Sign him up now.”

Dizzy tucks his head inside the door of the changeroom.

“Goodnight, babysitters,” he farewells. “Just don’t be too late into bed, we’ve got to get back to Leeds tomorrow morning.”

“No worries, Diz, what time does the coach leave?” Joe queries casually.

 

“10am,” the coach answers, “and then we’ve got training once we get back tomorrow afternoon.”

Mitch and Joe wave goodbye.

“No worries, we’ll be there,” he insists, before their coach leaves the pavilion, waving back.

“What time is it?” Mitch’s question is somewhat rhetorical.

 

He stands. Mitch steps over to his cricket coffin, where his watch is in the end pocket. He gets down on one knee and unzips it, retrieving the watch. It’s only 7:43pm.

“Not even quarter to eight, plenty of time,” Mitch comments. “What do you think we should get up to?”

He pivots on his knee to see Joe lying flat on the floor. He’s smiling as ever, and young Xavier is beaming back. He lightly taps Joe’s nose and the blonde man feigns outrage.

“Yes, he’s real,” Mitch confirms. “Although he’s an angel in disguise, old Joey.”

Joe scoffs at him.

 

“Old Joey?” he questions. “Where did that come from? I’m quite a bit younger than you.”

“Alright,” Mitch concedes, “although it’s still less than a year, I think.”

“You’re January, I’m December of the same year,” Joe points out. “Sorry, I looked you up on Cricinfo.”

“Hmmm.” Mitch smiles, lifting his chin. “What else did that teach you?”

 

Joe breathes out in thought.

“Let’s see what I can remember,” he recalls. “You were born in Baulkham Hills, Sydney, New South Wales, Australia.”

“Correct,” Mitch confirms, “on a Tuesday in 1990 at the Hills Hospital on Windsor Road, on the same day that a Queensland County XI played the Sri Lankans in Caloundra.”

Joe turns down his lips in approval.

“I must not have looked hard enough on Cricinfo to find that,” he pointed out, “so I believe you.”

“Thanks, mate,” Mitch beams. “What else do you know about me?”

“That it’s your turn to play with our young charge.”

 

+

 

Mitch sighs as he gets the white ball in his hand with one over remaining against Leicestershire, and nine runs needed.

“Come on, Mitch, bring it home,” Joe cheers from his fielding position.

He’s hunting in at short midwicket, clapping his hands. When Joe pauses, Mitch knows it’s time to run in and bowl. He delivers a short ball, which is pulled close to Joe. He dives and just gets a fingertip to it. The batsman scurry through for a single before the deeper fielder cleans it up and throws back into Mitch. He paces backwards to the top of his mark and wipes his forehead with his wrist. Five balls remaining, eight left to lose – Mitch bowls a full, wide delivery. It passes millimetres from the outside edge and trickles backwards towards the wicketkeeper. The batsmen sneak through for a bye, before Mitch collects the throw and jogs back to his mark, quickened by excess energy. He bowls on the leg side.

 

The ball is hit straight to Joe, who fields cleanly and throws in an instant. Heart in his throat, Mitch stumbles over to the bowler’s end stumps, to receive the ball. The batsman are running. Joe’s throw collides into the outer stump. As soon as the bails dislodge, with Taylor well short of his crease, Joe beams, brandishing one pointer finger as he sprints towards Mitch. The crowd at Grace Road fall silent. Linking hands, Mitch and Joe embrace.

“What a throw!” he yells. “You’re amazing, Joey!”

Mitch’s words almost echo around the quiet county ground. White is the new batsman. Mitch and Joe separate far too suddenly. Even with the ball in his hands as he’s running into bowl, Mitch can still feel Joe’s fingers against his. The image of his teammate and friend’s bright smile is emblazoned onto his eyes. It’s like a light turned on far too bright, on a dark night. In this daze, Mitch’s delivery isn’t as full as he would have like. It’s crashed onto the off-side and the batsmen scurry through for two too many runs for Yorkshire.

 

Mitch takes a deep breath at the top of his mark. He runs in and bowls a full delivery. It slips between White’s bat and pad, crashing into the stumps. Charging down the wicket, Mitch fist-pumps the air and whoops with delight, but he’s searching for Joe. The blonde man runs in and takes Mitch in a tight hug around his abdomen. With his other hand, Joe ruffles his hair.

“Come on, Mitch, bring it home,” he encourages.

In an instant, they part again. Six runs are needed off the final delivery of the match. All Mitch really needs to do is land a straight ball, on a good length or fuller, and keep his foot behind the line. It’s not difficult. Mitch has done this so many times before, but the final hurdle is always just that. It’s what must be leaped before the end result is a reality. Mitch attempts to replicate the previous delivery. As soon as off bail is dislodged, he screams with delight again, running off to embrace Joe.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again friends! Thrilled to be back writing after a looooong time....

Two days later, they’re back home. Joe finds that term easy to apply, whereas Mitch finds that it’s starting to be the case. He enjoys Leeds, the times spent with Joe. Mitch is grateful to the blonde man, that he’s found somewhere to miss as the circus rolls on. It’s better than missing home, which of course he does, something that became more obvious when spending time with Adam’s family. Lancashire win the toss for their away match and send Yorkshire into bat. Joe’s pencilled down to come in at three. He sits in the dressing room, focused. Mitch doesn’t dare to interrupt him, instead choosing to give him the time to prepare, by himself. When the first wicket falls, Joe rises to his feet and places on his helmet.

“Play well, Joey,” Mitch commends, with a slow clap.  
A grin flashes from behind the grille, then Joe disappears down the stairs. Mitch only catches sight of him again when he emerges out onto the field, while a pop song blasts through the speakers around the ground. He can’t help but feel that it’s a little tacky. It’s part of the atmosphere, apparently, as if the cricket can’t create atmosphere enough. Mitch glances around to see if another batsman will fill Joe’s empty seat, expecting his friend to spend a long time at the crease. Nobody does, though, so he sits down.

Mitch sits up straight.  
“Come on, Joey,” he murmurs under his breath, while the bowler charges in for Joe to face his first ball, from Yasir Arafat, the Pakistani import for Lancashire.  
Joe squeezes out a yorker, which Mitch himself would have been proud to bowl.  
“Nice work, Joey,” Mitch commends quietly.  
He relaxes a little in the chair, still warm from Joe’s presence. Mitch raises his left thumbnail to his mouth and chews carefully on the torn edge of the short nail. He emits a frustrated sigh at the bad habit.

Mitch links his long fingers in his lap, leaning against the back of the seat. Yasir Arafat runs in again, bowling a good-length ball. Joe taps it into the midwicket area and calls for the run, voice laced with positivity. They safely take the single. Joe will therefore have the strike for the next over, as Yasir Arafat takes his cap from the umpire with a smile. Mitch scans his eyes around the field. He locates Glen Chapple, the Lancashire captain, whom had bowled the previous over from the other end. Chapple charges straight for the umpire, removing his cap and handing it over, indicating that he’ll be bowling himself once again. They’d talked about Chapple’s bowling in the team meeting, so Joe is well-equipped.

He waits for the bowling as Chapple runs in, with Jacquesy at the other end. The delivery is short, perhaps shorter than even Chapple intended. The desired effect is achieved, though, as Joe taps down the ball to his feet, not able to score from the delivery. Mitch hunches over, as if his presence will grant him a better view. If nothing else, he wants to offer his support, even though he knows that Joe is off in his own world, rightly, at the crease. He takes a step back after Chapple moves forward to field the ball. Joe scratches his guard again, without asking for the umpire’s guidance to ensure the correct position. Mitch suspects that Joe is steadying himself, so that he can get into his innings.

“Come on, Joey,” he echoes.  
Chapple reaches the top of his mark, runs in again to bowl to Joe, this time a wider delivery, which Joe swats his bat at. He doesn’t connect, which is probably for the best given that he would have been more than likely to edge that line. Mitch’s eyes fly to the umpire, to see whether or not the ball will be called wide. He’s not sure whether he’s a bowler or a Yorkshireman in that moment, but he knows that his loyalties must lie with Joe’s men, because he draws his eyebrows together in bemusement when the umpire’s arms remain by his sides.

“Come on, Joey,” Mitch repeats.  
Joe pumps his legs and scratches his guard again, forcefully with the spikes of his shoe. He regains his stance as Chapple receives the ball. After shining it, he runs in again and bowls to Joe, who squirts the ball away.


	25. Chapter 25

From the dressing room, Mitch and Joe learn that poor old Azeem has been once again unsuccessful at the toss. They learn from the big screen, rather than their captain, whose being interviewed for the television, that Adam Voges has elected to bat. Joe grins, a little cheekily. Mitch treads across the dressing room, wearing only his socks.  
“That’s a bit of a surprise,” Joe admits, glancing around like he needs to be about to do something, even though there’s really nothing that he needs to do, given that he’s already dressed in his playing gear.   
Mitch retrieves his bowling boots from his coffin.

Leaning back against the wall, he hunches over a little to slip in his feet one by one.  
“I wonder,” Mitch muses, to Joe if to anyone else at all.  
Joe looks to his left, to try to make eye contact while he listens to what Mitch has to say.  
“Whether there’s an art to the toss,” Mitch finishes.

Joe shrugs his shoulders a little, but not at all dismissively. Mitch studiously ties his shoelaces. The toes of each of his boots are pressed against the wall.  
“Azeem was calling, after all, given that we’re away,” Joe points out.  
Mitch nods his head, then places both feet back onto the floor. He pumps his arms and legs a little, readying himself for the bowling innings. Mitch watches as Joe extends his arm in front of him. He curls his fingers and flicks his thumb upwards towards the ceiling, as if he’s tossing an imaginary coin. Slowly, a smile creeps onto Joe’s soft lips as he turns his gaze back to Mitch, who giggles quietly.

“You’ll have to start practising,” he quips.  
Mitch shadow-bowls across the length of the dressing room, behind Joe’s back.  
“Yes, I will,” he agrees, “if I’m only to captain England one day.”  
Mitch pulls up a little suddenly.

“Yeah,” he replies, then says nothing more.  
Joe glances briefly over his shoulder. Thankfully, Azeem returns to the dressing room at that moment, conveying the news which they had already figured. Jonny sidles up beside Joe, wicketkeeping gloves in hand. He slips them over his white inners, then slaps his palms together. Mitch hovers, as his teammates one by one prepare to leave to head out into the field. Before they go, Joe checks over his shoulder to make sure that Mitch is still with him, and indeed he is.


	26. Chapter 26

Yorkshire end up in Lancashire on the way home from Nottinghamshire, even though it’s not really on the way. Steady rain is teeming down throughout the day, forcing Joe to slow down and turn on his headlights as he approaches the one empty parking spot outside the motel where they will be staying the night. Joe parks and switches off the ignition, yet neither he nor Mitch move from their front seats. They watch the fat raindrops still teeming down and sliding down Joe’s windscreen.  
“I hate to say it,” Mitch eventually speaks up.  
Joe turns his head to look at him.

“But I’m not confident we’ll get a game, even tonight,” Mitch confesses.  
Joe nods his head with regret and reaches across his body for his door handle.  
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I don’t think it’ll stop, not even to get into this place.”  
“Should we run?” Mitch wants to know.

“Yeah,” Joe agrees.   
He halts.  
“In fact,” Joe corrects, “I’ll go in and check in, see if any of the other lads are here yet. I don’t think so, I don’t recognise any of these other cars arounds.”  
He surveys the small carpark once more, just to make sure he’s checked. Mitch does the same, instinctively copying Joe’s movements even though he’s not that much taller.  
“It would be hard to see, anyway,” Mitch concedes, then relaxes in his seat, raising one hand to nestle his fingertips within his dark and short hair. “Are you sure that you don’t want me to go inside and check in for us?”

Joe shakes his head without any concerns.  
“It’s fine,” he insists casually.  
Joe opens the door without a further word, disappearing quickly into the haze of the heavy rain after he closes the door again behind him. Mitch waits in Joe’s car, glancing around for a moment before breathing out loudly, just appreciating the solitude for a second. He enjoys Joe’s presence, though, and he finds that he misses him before he has the chance to realise that he’s gone. Instead, Mitch tries to occupy his mind with a match he knows that they won’t play.


	27. Chapter 27

Finally, they get back home to play at Headingley the next day. All of the boys feel a little lethargic after waiting around in Manchester. After a day’s rest, with only light training, they train hard on match day. Mitch treads a familiar path towards the field. He’s fiddling with the arms of his sunglasses, from back home. Mitch takes far too long to put them on, for something to occupy his hands while he walks. He passes over the concrete gutter with a single, large step. Mitch moves onto the field of play, which has been mown short. The outfield will be lightning quick, he reckons, for the match that they’ll hopefully play against Derbyshire, which is Usman’s county.

Mitch is looking forward to seeing him again, even though it hasn’t been long. He squats down briefly. Mitch brushes his hand over the blades of clipped, fresh grass. They’re slightly damp with dew, transferring moisture onto his palm. When he stands, Mitch wipes his hand over the side of his training shorts to dry it off.

+

Usman opens the batting in the second innings for Derbyshire, following the continuation of Azeem’s luckless run at the coin toss. Mitch strides out onto the field, following after Joe’s brisk jog as he chases their captain with Jonny by his side. The batsmen take longer to make their way out into the middle, clad in their kit and matching protective equipment. Mitch searches the fielders to catch Azeem’s eye. He’s not quite confident enough to assume that he’s taking the new ball, but he’s hoping. Instead, though, Azeem is looking towards Joe.  
“Rooty!” he calls out, making sure that he has the blonde man’s attention. “Your off-spinners.”  
Joe narrows his blue eyes a little.

Mitch glances towards Azeem and Joe. He looks at him.  
“You’ll take the second over, yeah?” Joe promises, even though Mitch knows he cannot keep it.  
He nods his head with conviction and briefly places his hands on his hips, before rising them to jog backwards. Joe flashes a brief smile and removes his cap, running towards Azeem. It’s only then when Mitch spots Usman. He’ll be facing the new ball, which will be bowled by Joe. Mitch knows that it’s a tactic, to take the pace off. It’s one that he suspects will be effective against Usman, but it’s not one which he volunteered himself at the bowling meeting.

A little jet of guilt pools in the pit of Mitch’s stomach. He breaths out slowly, his lips close together, as he rests his fingers on the front of his hips once again. Mitch is grateful that he’s far back enough in the field that he’s not within Usman’s eyeline. Joe removes his cap and exchanges it with the umpire for the new white pill, which he tosses roughly in his fingers. His appointment as the opening bowler is announced by the big screens bearing his name, photograph and Twitter handle. The punters in the grandstands really need all of that information, don’t they, rather than his stats. Mitch breathes out slowly to steady his thoughts, necessary so that he can concentrate appropriately in the field.

He hunches over a little as he walks in with Joe’s minimal run-up, before he bowls to Usman. The delivery lands just fuller than a good length. Usman attempts to play a straight-bat shot, but misses the ball. Jonny attempts the new white pill gratefully and whips off the bails for good measure, even though Usman’s foot is firmly planted behind the crease. Joe cheekily grins, his lips drawn into a circle as he follows through, then accepts the ball chucked back to him by Jonny. He ambles back to his mark while the umpire shuffles in to place the bails back atop the stumps. Mitch can’t help but smile, especially when Joe flashes him a grin while tossing the ball in his hands.

He’s loving this, the atmosphere of watching his friend bowl. It’s only when Usman plays a sweep to Joe’s next delivery that he spots the face of the man he’s known for years. It takes Mitch just an extra moment to realise that the ball is coming in his direction. It drops well short, as he scurries in and collects the ball, to hurl it back in to Joe. Usman and his partner complete one run. Mitch breathes a little easier, knowing that Usman is now off strike, no longer facing Joe’s bowling. He flicks his fingertip over his dark hair just above his forehead. The strands move out of the way, even though Mitch can see just the same.


	28. Chapter 28

It’s Azeem who suggests that they invite the Derbyshire team into their rooms after the match, and the rest of the lads easily comply. It’s a farewell of sorts, after a routine victory, given that the Twenty20 season is all but over and the County Championship begins again in only three days. Yorkshire’s next match is against Hampshire, in Southampton, so a travel day beckons in the morning, but until then, Mitch and Joe help Derbyshire lament their lack of qualification for the quarter-finals in a few weeks’ time, with drinks in hand.

“Buddy!” Usman rushes towards Mitch as soon as he spots him, wrapping him into a hug. “Congratulations, mate. That’s awesome news, off to Manchester tomorrow morning.”

Mitch draws his eyebrows together, a little puzzled. Usman’s eyes widen. Joe ambles over, two beer bottles in one hand and two phones in the other.

 

“Here you go, Mitch.” He hands one of each over.

On his phone, Mitch notices a number of missed calls.

“Sorry,” he apologises.

Mitch dawdles off towards the doorway of the dressing room, returning the call while slumped against the doorframe.

 

His dark eyes enlarge as he listens to the news, conveyed somewhat unceremoniously through a voicemail from a selector. The details of the travel to come skim over him, a Sunday late-night transfer to Manchester. Mitch is joining the Australian squad for the final ODI against England, to be played at Old Trafford.

 

+

 

Mitch returns to the team hotel in Manchester late that night, after carrying the drinks during another miserable defeat. He can feel the sullen mood amongst the side, ready to get home already. Mitch is finally allowed back his phone, noticing a message from Joe.

_Good win by the lads I see. Lucky you weren’t picked :P_

A smirk creeps onto Mitch’s lips as he pads through the foyer and makes his way towards the lifts, jabbing the button.

_Taking that as praise, thnx mate. Go well tomorrow._

The lift doors part with a ping.

 

_Thanks Mitch. Got a good feeling about tomorrow. Hopefully win the toss and bat and bat and bat._

Mitch smiles as he steps into the lift.

_Heavy rain forecast though_

Mitch pouts a little, even though Joe can’t see him.

 

He replies with a string of sad-face emojis. Mitch turns around and raises his pointed finger towards the buttons, then sighs, unable to recall their floor number. He reaches into the pocket of his Australian-issue training pants. Mitch retrieves the key card for his room and scans it over the reader, then examines it, searching for his room number.

“We’re on level three,” a cheery and familiar voice tells him.

Mitch glances up with a grateful smile. George Bailey steps into the lift beside him.

“Thanks, mate,” Mitch replies.

“No worries,” George responds. “You’ve only just arrived. I guess that you’ve had plenty of numbers to remember lately, travelling with Yorkshire.”

 

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees.

He presses the button for level three, then the doors close in front of them.

_Night Joey_

Mitch feels a little tired, and he can hear himself saying those words, as he has done so many times before.

 

_Night Mitch_

George doesn’t say anything, maybe because Mitch is clearly looking at his phone, until he slips the device back into his pocket and glances towards the closed doors of the lift.

“We’re glad to have you here, Mitchell,” George reassures him.

Mitch beams, blushing a little.

“Thanks, George,” he replies. “I appreciate that.”

The lift doors open again with a ping, on level three.

“No worries,” George responds.

 

He gestures towards the hallway with an outstretched hand.

“After you,” George invites.

“Thanks, mate,” Mitch says.

He steps out of the lift and into the corridor, with George following not long behind him.

 

“You’re in room twenty-two,” he supplies, giving the room number in the accent of Richie Benaud.

Mitch chuckles.

“Thanks, mate,” he echoes.

“You’re welcome,” George replies. “I just remembered that you’re in between Doey and PJ.”

 

“Fair enough,” Mitch answers.

He examines the doors nearby them, locating the direction in which his room is located.

“Night, Mitch,” George farewells him.

 

+

 

It’s a little melancholy being around the team hotel the following day. The squad are engaging in bonding before their long-haul flight back to Australia. It’s raining in predictably Southampton though, Mitch learns, and play is called off midway through the day.

 _Might b play 2morrow_ ; Joe proposes.

 _Will try to b there_ ; Mitch promises.

He hears nothing more immediately, which doesn’t worry him because he knows that Joe needs to drive back to their accommodation. Mitch slips his phone back into his pocket. He ambles over towards the table tennis table, wanting to make the most of his fleeting time with the Australian squad.

 

He might not get this chance again, he reckons. In Mitch’s absence of attention, the competition has gained another level. Thus, their mood has improved, the players crowded around the table. George and Steve Smith are battling it out with paddles in hand, patting that tiny white ball back and forth with vigour. They’re exchanging blows in an even contest. While their live musical accompaniment of Watto and Brett have just home with injury, the atmosphere of the players is lyrical enough. Mitch finds a smile creeping onto his lips, as he looks around at his company. He notes some greats of the game, or those in the making – Pup . . .

 

Well, just Pup, Mitch can’t or doesn’t want to guess who’s in the making. Steve Smith’s been called the next Shane Warne, mostly for his shock of blonde hair and his leggies. Steve though, Mitch reckons, thinks of himself as more of a batsman, and bats up the order for New South Wales. Then again, Warnie could bat a bit, too. He scored a Test match century, almost. Aside from them, Davey is his only other mate from New South Wales who’s left standing. That being said, they’re not exactly best friends. Mitch has nothing against the bloke, they just haven’t spent that much time together. Batsman and bowler, and all, but he knows in that, that he and Joe buck the trend.

 

Mitch glances ever so slightly to his shoulder, looking for his friends before remembering he won’t be there. Joe would be in Southampton, maybe back in his empty motel room, given that it would have been booked when Mitch was still expected to play. Joe hasn’t mentioned that anyone else is there. A roar bursts out amongst the heavy Tasmanian contingent of the squad. Smudger has hit the ball into the net, awarding Bails the victory. Ever the competitor, his fingers are threaded into his blonde hair in frustration. Doey’s arms are around Bails, dancing to celebrate their victory. Even Hilfy is managing a fair amount of enthusiasm.

 

Perhaps on-tour table tennis is quite a bit deal. It’s noisier than cards with Joe, which Mitch will return to when the Australians fly home. Still, he finds himself enjoying the atmosphere, two halves making the one whole.

 

+

 

Mitch stands leaning against the balcony, heart in his mouth, as Joe faces the bowling on 195 not out.

“Come on, Joey,” he murmurs under his breath.

As Kabir Ali, the Hampshire bowler, runs in, Mitch rubs his palms together. Joe faces the delivery, on a good yet hittable length. He plays a fruitful cross-bat shot, and hastily calls Moin through for two. They’re heading for the declaration, and a double-century, although Mitch’s mouth is dry at the thought. He’s glad that it’s Joe out in the middle, not him, but the lack of control is ripping at him regardless.

 

The throw is errant, and they successfully complete the runs, leaving Joe back on strike. He faces Kabir Ali again, hitting him for another two, this time through the off side utilising a cover drive. 199. One run away. Moin is backing up, and when Joe drops the next ball at his feet, he starts to run.

“No!” echoes a scream throughout the empty Rose Bowl.

Mitch isn’t sure whether it belongs to himself or Joe. Eyes wide, Moin scurries back into his ground at the non-striker’s end before the wicketkeeper can hurl the ball back to the bowler. Kabir Ali runs in, Joe drives once more. He jogs down the pitch, but his arms are aloft as soon as the ball beats the dive of cover.

 

Even on the slow outfield, it easily runs away for four. Joe removes his helmet, embraces Moin and points his bat to the dressing room. Bursting with pride, Mitch applauds until his hands are sore.


	29. Chapter 29

Mitch and Joe arrive in Chesterfield under sunny skies. They step out of the car in the motel carpark. There’s a smile on Mitch’s lips, to be back. Joe’s not unhappy, but his expression is masked with a little trepidation.  
“I reckon we’ll get one day’s play,” he predicts.  
Mitch smirks.  
“That’s England for you,” he quips.  
Joe chuckles as they head inside. Dizzy is waiting for him in the foyer.  
“Mitch, can we have a word?” he asks, looking a little concerned.

“Yeah, of course,” Mitch agrees.  
“I’m so sorry, Mitch,” Dizzy apologises. “You’re not playing.”  
Mitch’s face falls.  
“On the positive, though, you’re joining the Australia A side in Derby on Friday afternoon, so that’s good news, at least,” Dizzy explains.

Mitch smiles, because he’s not sure of whatever else expression he should make in response to the bittersweet news. After learning of his selection for the unofficial Test series, he thought that he would have two more matches up his sleeve. Now, Mitch would play neither of them, called to Australia A as soon as the others landed from Australia. Joe slaps him on the shoulder with enthusiasm.  
“Congratulations, Mitch,” he praises, with a hearty grin.  
“Yeah,” Mitch agrees. “At least I’ll be around for a little while.”  
“If you’ll excuse me,” Dizzy says.

He disappears back down the corridor. Presumably Dizzy has some other important coaching task to complete. Mitch and Joe turn to face each other.  
“This is what you’ve been aiming for, right?” Joe insists.  
“Yeah,” Mitch agrees, and it is true, in part. “I have loved being here and playing with Yorkshire.”  
“Oh, come here,” Joe encourages, taking a step closer as they hug. “You’re so nice. We’ve loved having you.”  
They rock from side to side, then separate.   
“Besides,” Joe quips, “last time you didn’t play, I got two-hundred. I don’t mind this arrangement.”

Mitch can’t help but chuckle. Joe tilts his head towards the reception counter.   
“I guess that we should check in,” he notes.  
“Yeah,” Mitch agrees.  
Joe takes a step closer.

“One last game of cards for the road, yeah?” he suggests.  
“Come on,” Mitch challenges. “I’m not leaving until Friday. It’s only Sunday. We can fit in more than one, and I’ll probably be back afterwards.”  
“Absolutely,” Joe supports.  
A natural leader, he takes a step forward towards the counter. The receptionist glances up from his computer to address them.  
“Ah, just checking in with Yorkshire County Cricket Club, please,” Joe requests. “The room for Root and Starc.”

“Just a moment,” the receptionist murmurs.  
He runs his eyes down the list.  
“Ah, there you are,” the receptionist notes. “Room 46.”  
He opens a drawer and retrieves the key, handing it over to Joe.

+

Just as Joe predicted, there is no play Thursday. It’s dark and gloomy when they’re dismissed from the ground.  
“Come on,” Joe suggests as he drives away with Mitch strapped into the passenger seat. “Let’s celebrate our time together so far before you leave tomorrow.”  
“But you’re in the middle of a match,” Mitch protests.  
Joe glances sideways. A mischievous smile creeps onto his lips.  
“What Dizzy doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Joe insists.  
Grinning, Mitch shakes his head.

“Alright,” he agrees, without any trepidation. “I’m now at your mercy, Joey.”  
“Don’t worry,” Joe insists. “You’re right to put your trust in me.”  
He drives them both through the heavy rain, to the supermarket not far from their hotel. There’s something innocent about it, scurrying inside the cramped and artificially lit shop.

“What are you keen for?” Joe wants to know.  
He hangs back, so that Mitch can lead.  
“Anything?” he checks.  
“Of course,” Joe agrees. “We’re going fully wild.”

Mitch laughs, with the ecstasy of doing something naughty. He races towards the ice-cream fridges, with Joe following closely behind him.   
“Wait,” Mitch suggests, being characteristically sensible. “We should grab a basket.”  
“Oh, we’re grown men,” Joe chastises, recognises the irony. We can just carry it.”  
Mitch nods his head in grateful agreement. He reaches forward and opens the door of the freezer, cold air races out. He reaches inside and grabs a tub of vanilla ice cream, cuddling it behind his forearm and the side of his T-shirt. It’s cold, of course, but Mitch doesn’t mind for some reason. This is even though it’s really not that warm outside, either, owing to the heavy rain.


	30. Chapter 30

Mitch glances around at the Australia A squad, assembled downstairs at their Derby hotel. He feels comfortable around this group, for some strange reason which he cannot quite name straight away. Ed, their captain, is standing near the front, perhaps ready to address them. Mitch remembers him from his youth at New South Wales, before Ed left. Johnno is here, too, the other Mitch – older, wiser and more tattooed. Mitch is keen to know about his recovery, given that he’s slowly returning to action. He probably wouldn’t be game enough to ask, though, so for the meantime, he says nothing at all. Tim, their wicketkeeper from Tasmania, is also on the mend after a badly broken finger a couple of years back, in a mickey-mouse game at the Gabba.

He doesn’t know him very well, but perhaps that will change. George is there, coming straight from the one-day squad. His never-ending smile is a calming presence, given just how immensely welcoming he had been when Mitch had abruptly arrived at the back-end of the limited-overs tour. Mitch isn’t quite sure why he has never been seen as a potential Test player. He’s glad to have Nathan hanging around. They’re close back home, not that they’ve spoken much since Mitch has been away. Of all his opponents, he likes Nathan, perhaps because he could have been a blue-bagger. The fact that he left doesn’t faze him.  
“Evening, gents,” Ed greets the group.

They fall silent to listen.  
“Firstly, it’s great that you’re all here,” Ed praises. “You’ve been selected because you’ve earned your spot.”  
He relaxes his tense arms a little.  
“I’m the captain, so there’s a certain standard I’d like to set,” Ed dictates. “We’ll work hard and play fair.”  
He takes a breath, looking for something else to say.  
“Training starts tomorrow,” Ed announces. 

Mitch can’t help but wonder whether or not he’ll be allowed to participate just yet.  
“Also,” Ed adds. “You probably don’t know. My wife is heavily pregnant, she’s due on the fifth of August. You’ll have to be a little patient with me if anything happens on that front.”  
“No worries, Ed,” Michael reassures. “That’s excellent news, mate.”

Ed’s eyes are gleaming with excitement, talking about his expectant child.  
“Thanks, mate,” he replies, running the tops of his fingernails over the palm of his hand.  
“We all understand,” Michael insists.  
“Well,” Nathan interjects.

Ed chuckles.  
“The young folk,” he mentions. “You’ll just have to empathise.”  
Johnno raises his hand.  
“Yes, Johnno,” Ed permits.

“Does that make me not a young bloke anymore?” Johnno asks, his smile a little cheeky.  
Realisation ripples over the group, taking Mitch just a moment longer than the others.  
“Are you saying--?” George asks, trailing off.  
“Yep,” Johnno confirms, beaming. “Jess is due in December, with our first.”

Mitch reaches over and places his hand on Johnno’s back.   
“Congratulations, mate,” he wishes.  
Mitch can’t help but think, and wonder wildly about what is to come. He tries not to, though, because that doesn’t get him anywhere.  
“Thanks, mate,” Johnno responds.  
The mood amongst the group is cheery after Johnno’s announcement, as they head back to their rooms. Mitch finds it a little strange to be rooming alone, after so many nights with Joe for company. It’s a little different, Australia A, and a little different again from the national team.

Everything feels a little homely, the fathers-to-be and the young men, all united by a common goal and a common love. Mitch’s empty room feels a little less lonely. He checks the time and decides to call Joe. Mitch is confident that they would have finished for the day and that Joe will be back at the motel. He doubts, though, that they will have gotten any play at all, given the rain that had been falling in Chesterfield when he departed. It’s still raining in Derby, but that’s expected to clear in the morning, although not so in Chesterfield, making it trickier to complete the match. Phone in hand, Mitch lowers his head back against the pillow.

He rests the back of his wrist against his forehead while he listens to the rings, waiting for Joe to answer his phone.  
“Mitch,” he eventually greets him. “How are you travelling?”  
“Well,” Mitch answers. “I’ve arrived in Derby, we’ve had our first team meeting. Get any play today?”  
“No, no,” Joe supplies, “and we’re doubtful for tomorrow as well, which is a bit of a shame.”  
“That’s England for you, hey,” Mitch quips.  
“Yeah,” Joe agrees. “We might be talking about forfeited innings and things in the morning.”

+

Mitch is bowling in the nets at Derby. He can’t help but wonder why this is good for his body, but playing with Yorkshire wouldn’t have been. As Mitch accepts the ball in his waiting palms again, he tries not to think like that. He knows that he must trust them – whomever they are – because they have told him that they know best.  
“Mitchell.” His head snaps around.  
Mitch is standing at the top of his mark, two of his fingers holding the ball on the seam. One of the coaches hurries over.  
“Mitchell,” he echoes. “One of the Yorkshire bowlers has been injured and you’ve been called back for the one-day match tomorrow.”

Mitch nods his head, barely believing what he is hearing.  
“You’ll be heading back to Chesterfield tonight,” is announced.  
“Alright,” Mitch agrees. “Who’s injured?”  
“Ah, not sure,” the coach admits. “We didn’t get that far.”

Mitch will find out from Joe soon enough, when he gets back.  
“Ah, what do I do know?” he wants to know.  
“You’ll be rested for the rest of the day,” the coach tells him. “Go back to the hotel and pack up what you’d like to take.”  
Mitch nods his head and waits for the coach to leave. It’s then when he slowly turns around, to see Tim still waiting at the other end of the net.  
“Duty calls, hey,” Tim calls out, ambling down the practice wicket.   
He starts to remove his batting gloves.

“I’ll get an early mark,” Tim remarks.  
“Maybe,” Mitch responds.  
He glances around, wondering whom he needs to say goodbye to. Presumably Ed will be told, if he hasn’t been already. He is the captain, after all. Johnno is bowling two nets away.

+

Mitch ambles towards the corner, to see Joe approaching, unexpectedly, in the other direction.  
“Fancy seeing you here,” he greets him, beaming.  
Joe startles, then glances up.  
“Mitch!” He wraps him into a hug.

After rocking from side to side, Joe steps back with an incredulous expression.  
“Did you escape or something?” he questions.  
“Sort of,” Mitch admits. “I’ve been called back as an injury replacement.”  
“The left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing, innit,” Joe comments, shaking his head gratefully.

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees, a little sheepishly. “More like Dizzy has friends in high places.”  
“That is also true,” Joe confirms.   
He pulls his eyebrows a little closer together.  
“Will you be rooming with me again?” Joe wants to know. “The other bed is still spare.”

“Cool, you haven’t replaced me,” Mitch replies with a self-effacing grin. “Yeah, I will be.”  
Joe nods his head.  
“That’s great, just like old times.” He turns around, so that they can start heading back to the room.  
“Yes,” Mitch confirms.

“You’ll have to tell me all about Derby,” Joe invites.  
Mitch scoffs.  
“I wasn’t there very long,” he admits.  
Mitch blushes a little, feeling just a little self-conscious.

“You wouldn’t know most of them, although you might,” he admits.  
“Try me,” Joe challenges, with a smile. “I haven’t seen the squad.”  
“Mitchell Johnson,” Mitch provides.  
“Of course I’ve heard of Mitchell Johnson,” Joe insists.

Wearing a cheeky grin, he raises his hands above his hand and waves his arms from side to side.  
“He bowls to the left, he bowls to the right,” Joe sings, then looks straight at Mitch.  
He starts to laugh.  
“OK,” Joe says. “Too close to home?”

He chuckles and Mitch tries to laugh along as well.  
“What’s he been doing lately?” Joe asks.  
“He got injured,” Mitch explains. “His toe, I think it was.”  
“Poor guy,” Joe remarks soberly.

“Yeah,” Mitch agrees quickly.  
He’s just a centimetre or two behind the line of Joe’s shoulders. Mitch needs to follow, because he’s become unfamiliar with their motel in Chesterfield. They reach the base of the stairs, to climb up to their first-floor room, and Mitch remembers. With long legs, they reach the corridor quickly, and Joe fetches the room key from the pocket of his shorts. They approach the door, then he presses the key into the lock. Joe twists it at the same time as the door knob. The door pops open and both he and Mitch step inside. Joe glances over his shoulder.

“Where is your bag?” he queries.  
Mitch shrugs his shoulders.  
“Somewhere,” he replies. “I think that my coffin got sent to the ground, and I think that my other bag’s downstairs, and some of my stuff’s still in Derby.”  
Joe nods his head, looking a little bemused.  
“Right,” he replies.  
“If you don’t mind, actually, now that I’ve come to see you, I might just go and get my bag to bring up,” Mitch suggests.

“That’s cool,” Joe allows.   
He glances around the room.  
“I’ll make sure that everything is fit for your re-arrival,” Joe decides.  
“Thank you.” Mitch steps backwards into the hallway again. “You’ll let me back in, yeah?”

“Of course, just knock,” Joe agrees.  
He shuts the door, so that Mitch can head back down the stairs, to the reception desk where his bag is waiting. It’s unattended, so he removes the note left on top of it and grabs a pen, scrawling down that he’s taken it. Mitch leaves the note on the reception desk, then slings the strap of his bag over his shoulder and treads the journey back up to his and Joe’s room. He’s back where he started, albeit temporarily. Mitch stands outside the closed door, fingers curling into a fist in preparation to knock. Last time, he was so grateful to be back.

Mitch still is, but he’s seen other possibilities, even in less than two short days. He knocks, then listens to Joe’s footsteps scurry across the carpet to open it. Mitch notices two hands of cards laid out on the floor, along with two chilled glasses of water. In between, the pile of the remainder of the cards is face down, ready for another fierce battle to begin.  
“Come on in, Mr Starc,” Joe invites, stepping back and extending his arm to show off how he had prepared the room. “Game on.”  
Mitch steps inside, beaming. Joe closes the door gently behind him, then ambles over and sits down on the floor, along with Mitch.

Joe leans against the end of his bed, whereas Mitch is resting against the wall. Mitch first places down his bag, then picks up his glass to take a sip.  
“That’s lovely,” he commends. “Thank you, Joey.”  
Joe is smiling at him.  
“No worries,” he replies.  
Joe picks up his hand of cards, randomly shuffled, just as Mitch places down his glass. Mitch then picks up his own hand of cards. Both men look at what they’ve been dealt, rather than at each other. Joe cannot place down any pairs to begin with, whereas Mitch possesses the four of hearts and the four of spades.

He neatly places them down on the carpet beside his thigh.  
“Nice,” Joe praises. “Well done.”  
“Do you have anything?” Mitch queries, innocently.  
“No,” Joe admits, grinning cheekily, “but would I tell you if I did?”

Mitch laughs.  
“That’s kind of the point of the game,” he reminds.  
Joe only chuckles in response.  
“You can start,” Mitch permits, “given that you’re already behind.”

Joe looks up at him, with mock horror, but knows that his Australian friend is only teasing.  
“Alright,” he agrees, pretending to sound offended. “Challenge accepted, Mitchell.”


	31. Chapter 31

Harmy’s still not right by the quarter-final. Four overs is deemed to be not too many for Mitch, so he’s allowed to play in Leeds. He’s not saying goodbye, because he’ll surely be back at some stage. Mitch can’t help but feel a little nervous at the occasion of a knock-out match, even though he’s played in them before. He’s won them before, although not this far away from home. Mitch will be right, though, because Yorkshire has become his second home. Before the match, he is sitting in the dressing room with Joe, after the toss. Gale had won it and elected to bat first, to get runs on the board. Mitch is happy to ease into the match, sitting in the dressing room with Joe, who will bat at three, a more familiar position than his opening spot in the County Championship.

“Their team’s a little funny,” Joe remarks. “They have a lot of first names as last names in their side.”  
Mitch upturns his lips a little, then moves his eyes over to the electronic scoreboard, where the names of the Worcestershire side are emblazoned.  
“Even the ones who don’t are close enough,” Joe adds, pointing briefly.  
Mitch nods.  
“Ali, Hughes, Cameron, Andrew, Mitchell, Kapil, Scott, Lucas,” Joe reads. “The majority of their team.”


	32. Chapter 32

Both Mitch and Joe have had a little bit too much to drink after winning the quarter-final. They stumble back home to Joe’s flat. It’s only when they’re waiting outside the front door, Joe fumbling for his keys, that Mitch considers going back to his own rental flat.  
“Stay,” Joe urges, his words a little slurred. “You can have my bed and I’ll take the couch. I don’t want either of us going back alone.”  
Mitch nods his head and gratefully slaps Joe’s shoulder blades. He’s thankful not to have to be out in the dark, especially not without his friend, and he doesn’t want Joe alone, either. Finally, he locates the correct key and presses it into the lock.  
“Thanks, Joey,” Mitch replies. “I’d really appreciate that. I’ll take the couch, though, it’s alright.”

Joe shakes his head as he twists the key and the doorknob, prompting the front door to pop open. He presses it further ajar and steps inside, groping the side wall for the light switch.  
“No,” Joe insists. “You’re taller, have the bed.”  
“Not by much,” Mitch points out.

“Still,” Joe reminds. “My mother wouldn’t want me to be a bad host.”  
“Alright,” Mitch replies, smiling. “Thank you, Joey, that’s lovely of you.”  
His tone is sincere, genuinely appreciative for the roof over his head and the company which is provides, which contrasts the flat which he hasn’t spent much time in.  
“Your mother should be very proud of you,” Mitch praises.  
“I try,” Joe admits.  
He eventually locates the light switch. Joe turns on the harsh living room light, prompting both he and Mitch to squint.

As soon as he can, he switches off the light again, then smiles dopily.  
“That’s better,” Joe murmurs. “Let’s get to bed.”  
He trudges off, leaving Mitch to carefully close the door behind them. Joe chucks his keys towards the kitchen. They drop somewhere in the darkness and Mitch doesn’t bother to look for them, confident they’ll be found in the morning. Joe trudges towards the lounge, which he begins to lug towards the hallway.  
“Let me help you,” Mitch insists, scurrying over so that he could drag the lounge from the other end. “Where are we taking it?”

“Into my room,” Joe answers. “I want to be able to chat, just like on tour.”  
A smile creeps onto Mitch’s lips. He’s leaving again in the morning, and he’d love that opportunity. Mitch doesn’t mention to Joe just how sleepy he feels. Carefully, he and Joe lug the lounge into Joe’s bedroom, shoving it up against the wardrobe. Joe scratches the back of his blonde hair with his thumb in haphazard thought.  
“Sheets,” he murmurs. “I should get myself sheets.”  
“Don’t worry,” Mitch insists. “I’ll get the sheets. I’m the guest, after all.”  
He scampers backwards, back out of the bedroom and into the narrow and dark hallway.

“No, no, no worries,” Joe challenges, waving his hand. “I’m fine with no sheets.”  
He stumbles over and flops onto the lounge. Mitch takes a few steps forward. He stands in the doorway of the bedroom, leaning gingerly after the door frame. Mitch smiles as he looks at Joe, seemingly already asleep on the lounge. He folds his arms in front of his chest and knows everything that he’s missing.


	33. Chapter 33

Mitch awakes to sunlight blasting in through Joe’s window. They had neglected to close the curtains the night before, but Joe is still sleeping. His frame is flopped over on his right side, one arm draped over his face. Mitch rises from bed quickly and meanders out into Joe’s small kitchen. He wants to thank his friend and host for everything that he has given him, through cooking him breakfast before they are both scheduled to leave Leeds. Mitch doesn’t want to pry, but carefully checks the fridge and cupboards. He eventually decides to make omelettes for them both, packed with vegetables from the crisper. Mitch retrieves the carton of eggs from the bottom shelf of the fridge. He places them down on the bench, then opens the drawer beside the oven, to fetch a saucepan to place atop the stove.

Mitch halts, though, when he hears footsteps approaching the kitchen from along the hallway. Joe appears, rocking from side to side. The heels of his hands are pressed against his eyes.  
“That was only a quarter-final,” Joe remarks, with a little hint of irony in his still-tired tone.  
He yawns.

Mitch is smiling when Joe removes his hands from his eyes and grins.  
“I do remember letting you stay,” he remarks.  
Mitch nods.  
“That’s good,” he replies.

“We were going to chat,” Mitch reminds, “but you were out like a light.”  
Joe chuckles, then blushes tomato.  
“That’s very true,” he agrees.  
Mitch takes a moody step forward towards nothing in particular.

“Was there anything in particular that you wanted to discuss?” he wants to know.  
Mitch isn’t expecting, though, for there to be a direct answer from Joe. Joe widens his eyes like he’s horrified, and shakes his head quickly.  
“No,” he replies, then scurries away quickly into the living room.  
Joe seems unwilling to meet Mitch’s gaze, perhaps because his eyes are sore with the morning sunshine, but perhaps that’s not the reason at all. Mitch is clueless and thinks nothing of it as he returns to cooking omelettes for the two of them, without explaining what he is doing.

+

Joe seems to have recovered from his embarrassment. He and Mitch sit down at the small dining table with their omelettes and glasses of water.  
“Thank you, Mitch,” Joe testifies. “This is really lovely of you to make breakfast for us.”  
“No worries,” Mitch reassures. “Thanks for letting me stay, it’s just like being on tour, which might not happen too many more times for us.”  
“You’ll be back next year,” Joe insists.  
A smile creeps onto Mitch’s lips.  
“Yeah, that would be great,” he agrees.  
What Mitch doesn’t add is that, if all goes to plan, he won’t have much time for Yorkshire.

He intends to be in the Champions Trophy team for the Australians, to be played in June, then maybe make the Ashes squad. Indeed, if all goes to plan, any time Mitch spends with Yorkshire will be nothing but a tune-up. It will be a reminder that this is not the ultimate goal, and this is not his native land. But Mitch doesn’t say any of this, because this isn’t what he intends to say, nor what needs to be said. He shifts a little uncomfortably in his seat whenever he thinks of playing against Joe. Fortunately or unfortunately, Strauss and Cook are firm at the top of the order, so maybe his brilliant friend will have to wait his turn.

“What were you going to tell me, Mitch?” Joe wants to know.  
Mitch is jolted back into the conversation.  
“I’ve been thinking,” he admits, regaining his strain of thought, “about asking my girlfriend to move in with me. Alyssa, you know, you’d like her, I think.”  
Joe nods, allowing himself a smile.  
“That sounds wonderful,” he compliments.  
Mitch beams, blushing a little.  
“I think,” he begins, “we’re ready. I’d like to get a little unit together and then set up a home, and who knows what comes next?”

Joe scoffs.  
“Being a national player must be sweet if you’re thinking of buying a house,” he remarks.  
“Yeah,” Mitch agrees, “but only a little one. It’s not bad, yeah, I’m really lucky. Anyway, I’m not really an international player.”  
“You’ll get there,” Joe insists. “Brett Lee and Mitchell Johnson can’t play forever. Besides, they’re both injured at the moment, aren’t they?”  
“Johnno’s getting right,” Mitch reassures.  
He steals a glance down at the food in front of himself and Joe.

Mitch reaches for his cutlery, a little self-consciously, to begin eating. Joe does the same, relaxing in his seat and devouring his food.  
“This is lovely, Mitch, thank you,” he praises.  
“You’re welcome,” Mitch replies, grinning.

“Have you spoken to Alyssa about moving in with her yet?” Joe asks.  
“We’ve sort of talked about it,” Mitch answers.  
“I reckon,” Joe suggests, sagely, “that you should definitely mention it more at least, and go for it.”  
Mitch leans back in his seat, emitting a soft sigh only for his own ears.  
“Yeah,” he agrees. “I’d like to.”  
They both finish eating, in relative silence, then position their cutlery straight on their plates.  
“I’ll pack up,” Joe offers, “seeing as you cooked for both of us so fabulously.”  
“Thanks, Joey,” Mitch replies, standing as he allows Joe to take his plate.

He downs the remainder of his glass of water, then hands it over as well.  
“You’re most welcome,” Joe echoes, then walks into the kitchen.  
Mitch glances towards the clock. It’s just before eight in the morning. Mitch tries to calculate, adding on nine hours for the time difference back to Sydney. It would be five o’clock in the evening back home, where Alyssa is. Mitch attempts to think of what she would be doing. She studies very hard during the day, marine biology at university. In the evenings, Alyssa trains even harder, with New South Wales. Maybe Mitch will be able to catch her in between, to seize the moment to ask.

“I’ll just be a moment,” he murmurs to Joe.  
Mitch wanders back into the bedroom to fetch his phone. It’s only then that his heartrate lifts a little. Sure, they’ve mentioned it. Mitch still doesn’t know if that means that Alyssa’s truly keen. He feels ready, which is a strange sensation to feel, that he loves a woman so much that he’d welcome residing just with her. At least for the meantime, himself and Alyssa are all Mitch needs to call a house a home. Mitch returns from the bedroom, phone in large, trembling hand, as he walks past the doorway to the kitchen, where Joe is placing the plates, glasses and cutlery into the dishwasher. They join others, which may have been there for quite some time.

Mitch makes no comment, on account of the fact that he doesn’t know much about this lifestyle, without his mother or a coach to make sure that everything he learns is well. His flat in Yorkshire is a means to an end, and in that one which he hadn’t wanted to return to after the quarter-final, because he prefers savouring his time with Joe.  
“Are you going for it?” Joe wants to know, glancing up from the dishwasher.  
“Of course,” Mitch agrees, then reaches for the handle of the door, to grant himself a little privacy, even from the friend he’s found.  
He passes out onto the balcony to make the fateful call home.

Mitch is especially glad in that moment that Dizzy threw in a good phone deal, so that he can always call home. Perhaps it makes him seem like a child, but he doesn’t care if that’s what he acts like. Mitch feels like a man, so that’s what he’s decided he is. The breeze is a little chilly after his face, as he makes sure to close the door again behind him. Even though Joe won’t be able to hear, Mitch senses that he will watch. He keeps his back to the glass doors, swaying back and finding that the hard, cool surface is a little closer than he’d thought. Mitch’s dark hair and supple scalp bumps against the doorframe. He grimaces, then adjusts his bare feet on the concrete slab of the balcony.

With that, Mitch is comfortable, and therefore able to make the call. Alyssa’s number is his most frequently dialled, followed by home. The pad of Mitch’s thumb hovers over the name of his beloved. He’s ready, then he’s not. He needs to check first, to make sure that he’s not making a terrible mistake. Alyssa’s too important to Mitch for him to risk wronging her. Still, he’s confident that she’s abundant in forgiveness. Therefore, Mitch makes the call. He’ll ring his mother later. Mitch raises the phone and nestles it against his ear and cheek, listening to the familiar rings, a little too loud. Perhaps Alyssa is driving or her phone is still on silent from a lecture.

Soon enough, though, she answers.  
“Hey, Mitch,” Alyssa greets warmly, and the sound of her kind voice immediately transports Mitch back home, without his bare feet having to leave the cold Yorkshire concrete.  
“Hello,” Mitch echoes. “It’s so good to hear your voice.”  
Alyssa doesn’t chastise him, because it’s barely been twenty-four hours, if that. Mitch last had called right before the quarter-final, just before he was required to hand over his phone to security. He desperately needed to seek her wisdom. It had been Alyssa who had controlled his nerves, like she always does, so patiently and selflessly.

She calms Mitch down like she’s never done it before. Alyssa doesn’t treat Mitch like she doesn’t expect never to do it again, out of humility rather than arrogance.   
“I’ve been thinking,” he proposes, without first introducing the idea, “about whether you’d like to buy somewhere to live together when we get back.”  
Alyssa affirms the idea, and Mitch knows he’s already home.


	34. Chapter 34

After the first day’s play – Mitch in Derby, Joe at Grace Road – it’s the Australian who makes the call. He’s sprawled out over the king single bed in his motel room, on his own. The fan above Mitch is whirring, the back of his wrist resting on his clammy forehead. They had been in the field late in the day, and Mitch has already taken a wicket.  
“Yo, Joey here,” he answers the call eventually, prompting Mitch to laugh.  
“You’re obviously not tired after a long day chasing leather,” he quips.  
Joe chuckles down the line.  
“We took nine wickets,” he reminds, “and you don’t have to chase much from the slips.”

Mitch can imagine the smirk on Joe’s lips.  
“True,” he concedes.  
“You weren’t exactly chasing leather today yourself,” Joe responds.  
“Well, we were by this afternoon,” Mitch points out.

“Smashing Derbyshire around the park,” Joe reflects. “Not many batsmen have been able to do that.”  
“Eddie and Bails did well,” Mitch praises, “and Burnsy, when the declaration was coming.”  
He calls the Queenslander Burnsy all the time, rather than by his Christian name, Joe, because Joe is only his friend from Yorkshire, in his mind, not the scruffy-haired Australia A cricketer.

Mitch breathes in a little in thought. His throat feels a little dry as he forms the question, before he voices it out loud.  
“I was meaning to ask you,” Mitch notes, “about whether it helps when you’ve batted with a bloke a lot, to go well. I mean, it’s nice when you take the new ball with the same bloke each week. I didn’t know whether that was the same for batters, too. Eddie and Bails, I mean, they’re good mates and they both play for Tasmania together, so I think that helps them go well.”

“Yeah, it does,” Joe agrees, although Mitch seems to have answered his own question.  
It’s rare that he’s almost the speechless one, usually he makes the pace of their conversations with his laidback and outgoing nature, in contrast to Mitch’s introverted personality.  
“That’s what I like about opening,” Joe notes. “You always start with the same lad.”

+

Mitch finishes with only one wicket, after Derbyshire declare three wickets down, not long after Usman brings up his unbeaten half-century. Their captain, the opener Madsen, is waving off his batsmen from the balcony. Dan Marsh, the Australia A batting coach, is shaking his arms just as frantically. Usman sidles up beside Mitch with a friendly grin, but he is playing little attention. He is trying to decipher which message is being conveyed. Soon enough, as they hurry up the stairs into the dressing room, it is obviously directed at one member of the team in particular. Ed’s wife has gone into labour, and he has left the ground before the field is entirely vacated.

Mitch glances around, not sure who he is now looking to for guidance, given that, for good reason, their captain and opening batsman is gone. Dan Marsh has departed as well, to drive Ed to the hospital, whereas Troy Cooley is still hovering.   
“We don’t need another captain just yet,” he insists. “We’ve got a batting innings to get through first.”  
A slow rhythm of nods bobs around the heads in the room. Tim takes a step forward, batting gloves in hand.  
“I’ll open,” he offers. “We’ll be right, I’ll be right.”  
The unspoken question lingers in the air, but Tim is permitted, for his own confidence if nothing else.

He and Maxi head out to bat ten minutes later. Everything is then a little more settled, as Maxi faces the first ball. Mitch glances around and locates a chair to pull up, bisected by sun and shade. Troy settles into his position under a folding table.   
“Oh, they’ve picked the England Lions squad,” he points out.  
Carefully, Troy places down his coffee mug amongst the papers, next to the laptop he’s permitted as an analyst.   
“Oh, yeah,” Johnno chimes in. “Which poor souls have they picked?”  
There’s a firm smirk on his lips.

Mitch can’t help but emit a chuckle, as Johnno’s expression blooms into a warm, disarming grin.  
“Eoin Morgan will skipper,” Troy divulges.   
“That glorious ginger from Middlesex,” Peter remarks and Mitch chuckles with surprise.  
“Come on,” Alister counters. “He can’t be the most glorious ginger.”


	35. Chapter 35

“Congratulations,” Mitch wishes Joe over the phone, that evening.  
“Thanks,” Joe replies, sounding a little shell-shocked. “It’s a fantastic honour.”  
“Were you expecting it?” Mitch asks.  
Joe doesn’t answer straight away.

Mitch stays silent, not wanting to prod.  
“Maybe,” Joe finally admits. “I knew that the Lions squad was being selected, because I knew that you were playing them. I had hopes, especially after making that double-ton the other week.”  
Mitch nods his head, slowly.

“That’s excellent,” he praises.   
What is left unspoken is that they will be playing against each other. It has occurred to the both of them, but neither are willing to voice what will occur at Old Trafford in a few weeks. Mitch has bowled to Joe before, of course, but never in a match.

+

Now that Mitch is gone, Joe goes back to rooming with Jonny, with whom he’s travelled up through the ranks at Yorkshire. They settle quickly back into their familiar friendship, debating with friendly vigour about the merits of their respective football clubs, Leeds or Sheffield United.  
“We’ll have to see in the winter, hey,” Jonny brings the conversation to a close.  
He retrieves the keys to their room. It’s Jonny’s responsibility to look after them, rather than Joe’s, in the pocket of his tracksuit pants.   
“Indeed,” Joe agrees, waiting while Jonny presses the key into the lock.  
He twists it along with the doorknob, pressing the door of their room ajar.

Jonny holds the door open, so that Joe can pass through first.  
“Thanks, lad,” Joe replies, then enters their motel room and pads over to his bed near the window.  
He listens to Jonny entering after him, closing the door.  
“You’re welcome,” Jonny answers.

+

They play Northamptonshire away from home, batting first. Joe is opening the batting with Adam, just as he usually does. After the first over, he finds himself glancing towards the dressing room, but of course Mitch is not there. Joe is going to have to get used to that, because Mitch won’t be around for a while, but undoubtedly he’ll be back. He stretches his legs, still feeling a little heavy under partly cloudy skies. Rain isn’t expected, which Joe is glad about for once, because they’ve had enough inclement weather over the summer. Joe turns his head around, examining the field and searching for which bowler will take the next over. They had forecast that Daggett will take the second over, and indeed it is him handing over his cap to the umpire standing at the bowler’s end, so that Adam can face up again.

Joe waits at the non-striker’s end, while Daggett pads back to his mark. He makes sure that the toe of his bat is behind the freshly-painted crease line with a solitary glance downwards, then glances back up, watching all of the people around him. Batting may be a personal mission, but it’s certainly not a lonely one, given just how many bodies are surrounding him every ball. Daggett runs in and bowls to Adam, as Joe creeps forward out of his crease when the ball is delivered. It’s a good length ball. Adam defends the delivery at his feet.  
“No run,” he calls out loudly.  
Adam’s voice echoes around the largely empty county ground.

Joe nods his head, stepping back into his crease. After his follow-through, Daggett fetches the ball. He tosses it back to the Northants wicketkeeper, David Murphy. It’s curious the things that Joe notices as he glances around – Murphy’s facial hair, the sprinkles on the ice-cream being handed from the caravan to a child, a tartan rug in the stands. He doesn’t blame the spectator, because there’s a biting breeze fluttering the flags at the ground. Nonetheless, blue sky leaks out from around fluffy white clouds. Were it a still day, it even could have been warm, and nonetheless bright and fruitful for batting. A collective agreement bounces around the pitch.

Murphy crouches, Adam raises his bat, Joe lowers his as Daggett hunches over slightly to begin his run. The delivery is bowled, again producing no runs. As Joe keeps his position at the non-striker’s end, a smile nonetheless creeps onto his lips. He gazes up at the dazzling sunshine and knows that he, and Adam, have all day to build a partnership and bat together.


	36. Chapter 36

Mitch is a little alarmed by the tap on the shoulder from Troy, when he’s walking around the Old Trafford nets. Steve and George are shepherded back inside, too, which relaxes him a little, knowing that he’s not the only one being pulled away from training. In early August, it’s one of the warmest days he’s experienced since arriving in England. Owing to that, Mitch appreciated the air-conditioned comfort of the pavilion, once the door is closed behind them.  
“You’re going back to Australia,” they are told, “to play limited-overs matches. You won’t be returning for either of the first-class matches here, but we want you to prepare for the UAE tour.”

Mitch won’t have to play Joe. This is the first thing that occurs to him as Rod keeps talking. Sure, Mitch will be playing his mates, some sort of limited-overs Australia A side, but he’s done all of that before. The rest of the information washes over him, until he realises with a jolt that there’s not long until his plane. Mitch is heading home, uninvited. He feels uninvited, anyway. Mitch yearns for being that close to Alyssa, even though she’ll still be thousands of kilometres away. Finally, he is dismissed by Rod, along with Steve and George. They are provided quick time for goodbyes, before they return to their hotel, altogether in an otherwise-empty team bus, to pack for home.

Steve and George both select seats up the front, on opposite sides of the aisle. Mitch glances between them, then opts to sit behind to George. He still remembers his kindness upon his reunion with the one-day team, when there wasn’t much to be done, and therefore chooses the Tasmanian over Steve, even though he is his state teammate from home. They can chat across the aisle if they choose, anyway, but Mitch doesn’t really feel like talking. He rests his temple against the warm window of the bus. Mitch closes his eyes, then opens them again, knowing that he has plenty of other time to sleep.

+

Joe will be on the road, Mitch knows when he returns to the hotel and begins packing briskly with his room door closed. The team bus, though, will provide him with the opportunity to answer his phone. Mitch flips over the lid of his suitcase and pulls around the zipper to secure it. Then, he sits down beside it, knowing that George or Steve or someone will come and fetch him when they have to leave. Mitch makes the call, to Joe.  
“Hello,” Joe answers quickly. “No need for the phone, Mitch, we’re almost there and I heard that you’re training today.”  
“Well,” Mitch corrects. “I was. I’m being sent back home.”

Joe only breathes in with worry, not saying anything straight away.  
“They want me to play some one-day matches, to get ready for the UAE tour,” Mitch explains. “I’m not the only one, George Bailey and Steve Smith are coming too.”  
“Well then,” Joe finally answers. “I guess that you won’t be able to get me out anytime soon then.”  
Mitch smiles, blushing a little.  
“I would have backed you anyway,” he remarks.


	37. Chapter 37

“The flight’s been delayed,” Steve announces, returning to where Mitch and George are waiting.  
Mitch nods his head, trying to disguise his annoyance, while George briefly raises his eyes in recognition, before returning his attention to his magazine. Steve continues to pace around the departure lounge, pretending to play a shot with his imaginary bat every now and then. Mitch imagines that he’ll have to sleep well on the plane, if he’s expending all of his energy before they’ve even boarded in Manchester, for the first leg of their trip, to Dubai. He looks up, though, at the urgent sound of footsteps racing through the terminal. Mitch spies familiar blonde hair first, then the England Lions training kit.

Beaming, he bursts to his feet as Joe rushes towards him, wrapping him into a hug.  
“Mitch,” Joe gushes. “I couldn’t let you go without saying goodbye in person. Compo’s having the first net, they won’t even know I’m gone.”  
He breathes a little quickly, to get back his breath as he glances around the departure lounge.  
“I didn’t even know if you’d still be here,” Joe admits.  
“Well,” Mitch replies. “You would have gotten here just in the nick of time. The plane’s been delayed so we’re not sure when we’ll be leaving.”  
Joe grins and fetches a cardboard packet from his pocket.

“Wanna play in the meantime?” he offers.  
“You’re on,” Mitch answers enthusiastically, before they sit down side by side.


	38. Chapter 38

Mitch settles into his seat on the plane, allowing himself to relax. It’s larger than most aeroplane seats his tall frame has been subjected to, so he thinks that he could get very used to the travel allowances provided through the Australian set-up. There’s a smile lingering on Mitch’s lips, from his rounds of cards with Joe. He’ll be back, he’s sure, though. Steve and George find their seats on either side of Mitch.   
“That was nice,” Steve comments, sounding less than authentic, “that your mate from Yorkshire tracked you down to see you.”  
“Yeah,” Mitch agrees with a disarming grin.

He scours through his thoughts, recalling that Steve has played in England before.  
“Do you still have mates from when you played over here?” Mitch asks, casually.  
Steve raises his chin a little, almost as if he’s thinking.  
“No,” he supplies, shaking his head, and says no more.  
Mitch gulps, curling his fingers around his seatbelt. He sinks back a little further into his seat, his neck tense. Mitch knows that he’ll be different, though, because he’s made such a good friend in Joe over his time in Leeds. Maybe Steve just doesn’t do friends altogether, which Mitch used to think was his own problem, although that isn’t how he intends himself to be.  
“Are you going back after?” George wants to know.  
“Yeah,” Mitch confirms readily.

+

Ed is back for the first unofficial Test, having not become a father just yet. The contractions subsided and his wife was sent back to rest, meaning that the captain can play. Joe knows all of this, from Mitch, who is not there. He feels a little spared. Something seems to have stayed intact now that Mitch is back in Australia. Joe knows that he’ll be in Darwin, amongst the humidity and heat, even in winter. He tries to imagine it, by curling his fingers around the top of the fence surrounding the balcony and feeling the Manchester sun drizzling down his back. Joe watches the match referee confidently striding out towards the pitch.

Ed and Eoin are following after, fluttering team sheets in their hands. All three men meet in the centre, shaking hands and producing a coin, for Eoin to flip and Ed to call. Joe’s not sure whether it’s heads or tails, with no cheesy graphic on the big screen to assist him. He leans forward a little, resting against the barrier, watching intently as all three men on the pitch hunch over to inspect the coin as it reaches its final resting place. They professionally shake hands, before Ed fetches his coin. He’s a slighter man than Joe imagined him to be, based on reports from Mitch before his arrival in Manchester. He thinks he spies Eoin speaking with the match referee. Ed is the man to head off the field first, back towards the visitors’ dressing room.

He shakes his head to his own men, then mimes bowling a delivery. Joe trusts the Australian and turns around. With a smile on his lips, he wordlessly departs the balcony before Eoin returns. Joe heads over to his coffin and removes his pads, so that he will be able to tightly strap them onto his lower legs, along with the rest of the equipment he’ll need to open the innings.  
“We’re batting, Compo,” he announces to his new partner, from Somerset.  
The other man nods his head. Nick saunters over to his own coffin, two parts of the same whole individually preparing themselves for battle. One thing Joe appreciates about opening the batting is that, most of the time, he knows exactly when he’ll bat.

For the first innings, at least, he’s afforded some extra time to prepare, to know that he’s ready to begin the match. Joe carefully removes each item of equipment from his coffin, laying them out carefully within the locker area he’s been provided with. Finally, he hears Eoin’s footsteps behind him.  
“We’re batting,” his Irish accent announces.  
Joe turns around with a warm grin. Eoin eyes his equipment.  
“I saw the Aussie skipper tell his lads they were bowling,” Joe explains.  
Eoin nods his head, then heads off.

If all goes to plan, Joe and Nick will handle the morning, so he’ll be able to put his feet up in the dressing room for at least a while. Joe turns back to his equipment, sealing the zipper of his coffin once he’s confident that he’s adequately unpacked. He thinks for a moment, but stands up straighter once he’s counted off each item, following a familiar routine that he’s carried out so many times before. Helmet. Right glove. Left glove. Right inner. Left inner. Jockstrap. Box. Thigh pad. Right pad. Left pad. Right batting spike. Left batting spike. Joe counts them over one more time, before shuffling closer to his seat. He’s already dressed in his whites, because he knew that it would be involved in the match from the first ball, no matter the result of the toss.

Discretely, Joe fetches a jumper in which he wraps his jockstrap and box. He rolls it up with his protective items inside. Joe starts heading off towards the showers, to change. He’s held by Nick’s gaze, though. The other opening batsman’s hand is outstretched.  
“Will your mate take the new pill?” Nick asks.  
There’s only genuine curiosity in his voice, not at all a hint of mockery.  
“No, mate,” Joe answers, a little sadly, even though it’s mixed with a smile of relief. “They sent him home.”  
Nick smirks.  
“They wanted him to have limited-overs practice,” Joe explains.  
Nick blushes a little and nods his head.  
“I suppose that’s good,” he comments, “because you said he was really good.”

+

Joe dawdles off the field after exchanging handshakes with the Australians. The England Lions tour is over, once the second unofficial Test concludes in a draw, just like the first did. Perhaps both sides have been too good with the bat. The rain didn’t help, either. Joe hovers around the boundary rope, glancing back over his shoulder. The other lads are still lingering around, not standing too close to each other. Joe feels a little relieved that, like him, they don’t quite know what they’re doing either. These Australians feel like real people, perhaps because he knows Mitch. Maybe it’s also because, unlike a tour match, these lads will return home to uncertainty, rather than a Test tour.

Joe glances around the field, searching for Eoin. He spots him relatively quickly, ambling over towards their captain. Eoin’s dressed in his training kit.   
“What’s the plan now, skip?” Joe queries, leaning him towards his captain.  
“I’m not sure, Rooty,” Eoin admits, somewhat frankly. “I think that we’re going to get together with the Aussies for a drink, but I can’t find their captain.”  
Joe searches his captain’s face for a hint of indignation. He doesn’t really find out, however, which he finds himself being glad about, perhaps because he doesn’t want to start judging them.   
“Oh, Ed’s not here anymore, sorry,” their wicketkeeper, Tim Paine, apologises as he ambles over. “His wife’s gone into labour again, so Dan took him to the hospital.”

Eoin’s eyes widen in surprise, whereas Joe simply nods his head, because he’s heard about their captain’s family commitments from Mitch.  
“Um,” Tim continues, glancing around and searching his players, hanging around.  
Their hands are on their hips, looking a little bemused.  
“I’m sure that we’ll all get together,” Tim insists.  
He finally smiles.  
“Yeah, that’d be nice,” Tim agrees.  
Then, he strolls away. Joe and Eoin look at each other.  
“I guess we’re invited then,” he remarks.


	39. Chapter 39

Sixteen runs required, six balls remaining. Surely Azeem can bring it home with the ball from here, against the Sussex batsmen at Headingley. Joe is glad to be playing back home. Still, the early evening sunshine, which would have been appreciated much earlier in the day, is blaring against his back. Joe is fielding at short cover, where he can both prevent the boundary and execute a run-out if needed. His legs are spread a little wider than the width of his shoulders, his spikes sinking into the damp turf. Joe raises his hands, reaching for the peak of his Yorkshire cap. He presses against the sides to curve it down further, channelling his nerves into the movements of his hands.

When he lowers them, though, Joe regrets the slightly-reduced vision his shaping of his cap has created. Still, Azeem is now running in, and he is squinting despite his sunglasses. Joe doesn’t have the time to fiddle with his cap, so instead he just hunches over and peers towards the pitch. He creeps in just before Azeem bowls, trying to dart in his off-spinners. Joe halts as Azeem lets go of the ball, sending down a full toss which Khan gets underneath and smacks into the sun. He grimaces as he tumbles towards his right. The shot, though, is much wider than Joe would ever have the chance to catch. It’s also too high for Azeem to be able to grab it, even though he springs off his feet with both arms raised above his head.

Joe falls, the grass brushing against his cheek. He listens to the clunk of the ball against the sightscreen, before he pushes himself up from his beloved turf. As Joe stands, the umpire’s arms are raised above his head. Ten off five, still two runs a ball. The lower-order batsmen are in, too, so this should be easy. The thing Joe’s found, though, is that cricket’s rarely easy. Whenever it becomes so is when he suspects it’s about to become very, very hard. Difficult is what cricket’s meant to be, Joe’s been told, and he’s starting to believe that. He rubs his fingers together, not bothering to brush them against his face.

Joe’s cheek feels a little damp and squished, making him feel a little sleepy already for some strange reason, even though it’s long from sundown. Azeem bowls as Joe creeps in, this time landing the delivery on the pitch. A Bronx cheer ripples around the crowd, ever the critic, before it hushes with guilt when Khan scoops out the delivery and squirts it out, quickly, through point. Joe clings himself to his left, but he doesn’t think that he’ll touch anything but grass with his outstretched fingertips. He stands back up as quickly as he can to chase, but he spots the ball reach the boundary rope before he’s even upright. Six off four, still well and truly defendable given how well Azeem has been bowling during his golden summer.

Joe jogs towards the boundary rope, his legs feeling a little wobbly, just in case the ball does truly come his way, off the blade of Khan’s bat or from one of his fellow fielders. He holds out his cupped hands, so that the security guard can toss the white cherry back into them. Joe turns the ball over a couple of times as he runs back in, feeling its jagged leather and seam. He wants to know just what he’s searching for, before he throws it back to Azeem. The bowler accepts it, before he and Andrew fiddle with the field a little. It’s all for show, really, because Joe doesn’t sense that their plans are going to change, given that they’ve long been pre-determined. Internally, he figures that Azeem ought to stack the leg-side and pull back his length.

Joe doesn’t say anything, though, even though he’s close enough to where Andrew and Azeem are standing, tossing the ball in his hands, that he could have called out. Thinking over his words, a chuckle bubbles through his throat, but he bites down hard on his bottom lip to suppress it. When he hunches over to walk in with the bowler, Joe tastes blood. Azeem darts the ball in once again, bowling a full delivery which Khan hits down the ground. Joe charges to his right, but it’s past his position before he can reach it. Bressy is fielding at deep mid-off. It’s the position where Andrew and Azeem just moved him too, from deep third man. Joe resists the urge to place his hands on his hips, although he knows he must concede that his captain and bowler are right.

Still, Khan and his partner scurry back for the second run. Finally, Bressy hurls the ball back into Azeem’s waiting hands. Both batsmen are back in their creases safely, though, with Khan back on strike. Azeem stands at the top of his mark, not too many strides from the crease, and tosses the ball over a couple of times in his hands, before running in and bowling. Four runs off three balls. It’s getting a lot closer than Joe, or any of his teammates, want or anticipate this match to be. Khan smacks the next delivery straight towards Joe at cover. He rushes forward, hands pointed towards the ground. Joe collects the ball and throws it to the bowler’s end, where Azeem is scurrying back to the stumps as Khan sprints down the pitch.

He’ll be off-strike, Joe realises, and he really doesn’t have to take those sort of risks at this point of the game, when one streaky boundary will get them home. He’s not quite sure why he thinks of any of that, though, before the ball has even reached the stumps. Azeem takes it, dragging his arms around the stumps to break the bails. Joe’s eyes are wide, but not quite wide enough to tell whether or not Khan is safe. Still, he charges forward with one arm raised and one finger pointed, confidently appealing towards the umpire. It’s the umpire who turns around. He gestures that he would like to consult the third umpire. Twelfth men rush drinks onto the field.

Joe thinks it’s a little unnecessary, given that the game is only a minute or two away from being over. Nonetheless, as his team huddles, he reaches for his bottle and pours water into his mouth, drowning his tongue a little too quickly. Joe splutters, but swishes the water around in his mouth while he breathes through his nose, rather than spitting it out, because there are bodies all around him and he does have some manners, after all. Joe’s heart seems to bob amongst the chilled water, as his eyes move towards the big screen, where the replays are being relayed for the crowd. He narrows his eyes, as if this will make his vision more precise. Just, Joe realises, Khan is home. He’s not out. Joe can’t help but feel a little guilty, that his own arm has failed him.

He curls his fingers around his shoulder. Joe begins to walk backwards as he squeezes the fabric on his shirt, sinking his fingertips. He doesn’t really have fingernails long enough to break the material. Joe supposes that that’s a good thing, otherwise he probably would have broken his skin as well. There’s a hush around the ground, as the verdict of ‘not out’ is formally revealed through a graphic, long enough after everyone has figured it out. The drinks lads collect the bottles. Joe takes a few steps forward again. He slots his back into his spot, before watching them jog off the field. Joe returns to his fielding position at cover, although he’s looking towards Andrew and Azeem just in case they need him to move, but they don’t, even though he still thinks he’d rather be fielding on the other side of the field.

That wouldn’t have given him the chance to field the ball, though. Again, Joe’s got to admit that someone else may be right, even though he fancies himself as a captain one day, or at least someone who wants to know the game well enough. Three runs needed, two balls left in Azeem’s final over. Joe’s feeling nervous, because he knows that they would win with a boundary. Still, it’s a double-edged sword, because they still need more than a run a ball. If only Azeem could just bowl a dot ball, then their task of victory would become a lot easier, because then they would need three off the last ball.

Still, Joe doesn’t want to be critical, because he knows that sometimes it’s not that easy. He bowls off-spin, too, even if not frequently enough to feel some sort of spinners’ solidarity. Azeem delivers to Beer, who whips the ball onto the leg-side. Gary fields, but too slowly for there to be any hope of a run-out, as Khan gets back on strike. Andrew waves his arms around frantically, bringing the whole field in, except for a few token boundary riders, to cut off the four. Two off one, they need to save the single.


	40. Chapter 40

After the loss, they seem to spend an age in the dressing room, like they would have had they won. Dizzy is talking over a few plans that they could have executed. The imperative is could have, of course, so they are essentially learning for next time. It’s starting to get towards the time of the summer, though, when their next times are running out. When Joe finally dawdles out, it is dark. He gazes up at the sky over Headingley and is struck by just how dark it is, clear like it had been at the very end of the match, despite the rain that they had encountered in the morning and which had delayed their innings not long after it had started. It shocks Joe a little bit, even though he feels like he’s starting to see every sky in England, on the road with Yorkshire.

Perhaps, one day, if all goes well and he ends up with England, he’ll see every sky in the cricketing world. That seems far off, though. It’s a distant dream that’s as lofty for Joe as the sky, and as ever-present and part of his existence as whatever lies above, too. If there’s something more, what’s the point of any of this? Joe supposes that getting there is imperative on the present, so that’s how everything links togethers, the highs and the lows. He’s not quite sure whether he’s thinking about national selection or religion, neither of which he’s considered as being as complicated as others make them out to be. Joe reaches for the railing and is pleasured by the coolness of the metal as he curls his fingers around it.

He runs his hand, a little roughly, down the balustrade as he saunters down the stairs. Joe reaches the base of the staircase, where he’s in the shadow of the wall, away from the heat of the lights. He sinks against the wall, feeling like he’s melting into it. Joe reaches into the pocket of his trousers, wedged almost shut against the bricks. He retrieves from it a paper packet and a cracked plastic contraption. Joe glances around, although he’s not sure exactly who he’s looking for. Mitch isn’t here anymore, so there’s nobody who’s worth hiding for, not even himself. Joe tugs at the packet to open it, which is a little harder task than he expects.

He accesses them infrequently enough, at this stage and age, that he can’t remember whether it’s old or fresh. Joe’s about to give up, though, deciding it’s not worth it, when the cardboard bursts. Something round and thin slides out. It slips through his fingers and onto the concrete beneath Joe’s feet, still a little damp from the rain which had fallen earlier in the day, given that it would have been largely shielded from the sun that followed, briefly, before night eventually fell. He searches for it with his boot, looking to kick it away to dissociate himself.

\+ 

Mitch is in Perth in the late afternoon, waiting for his connecting flight. It’s himself, George and Steve again, heading to the United Arab Emirates. Mitch glances towards his watch. He adds three hours, then removes twelve, to calculate what time it would be for Joe, just after seven-thirty in the morning. Joe’s not always an early-riser, but he figures that it’s worth calling nonetheless. It’s better than the alternative, of not ringing at all until Mitch reaches Singapore. As he makes the call and places the ringing phone against his ear, he ponders what he already knows. Mitch knows that Yorkshire lost off the final ball.

Beyond what’s been reported online, though, he doesn’t know much more. That surprises Mitch a little. His contact with Joe is customarily so frequent. Mitch almost doesn’t realise sometimes that he’s actually left, and he’ll be away for a while. Still, the time-zone hurts, although it’ll become a little easier once it narrows when he’s on international duty, he reckons.  
“Hey,” Joe greets Mitch, sounding a little breathless.  
“Hello,” Mitch replies.  
He’s still sitting with his back a little too straight.  
“Are you alright?” Mitch queries, tensing his features.

“Yeah,” Joe confirms, then halts and makes a strange, guzzling sound. “Sorry, lad. I’ve just been in the gym.”  
Mitch checks his watch.  
“Already?” he quips. “You’re dedicated, Joey.”  
“Well,” Joe responds modestly. “I had to do something after yesterday.”  
“I’m sorry,” Mitch apologises.  
“Not your fault,” Joe insists.   
Mitch assumes that Joe’s talking about the match, but he’s not truly sure.

“Thanks,” he answers, a little weakly, grateful for Joe’s forgiveness for nothing in particular.  
“Where in the world are you at the moment?” Joe wants to know.  
“Perth,” Mitch answers, glancing around a little as if he’s checking. “I’m stopping over. Darwin, then Perth, then Singapore, then wherever.”  
Joe laughs.  
“I don’t think that ‘wherever’ is a big cricketing city,” he quips.  
Mitch laughs.  
“Well, you’re probably right,” he agrees.

“I’m usually right,” Joe insists, but there’s a light tone to his voice which indicates to Mitch that he’s intending to joke.  
He can imagine the wide grin which Joe would be wearing, were they talking in person, top to tail lying on twin single beds in a motel room somewhere in England, under a fan.  
“Sharjah’s the final destination, right?” Joe checks.  
“Yeah,” Mitch confirms. “That’s where we’ll meet up with the rest of the squad, George, Steve and I.”  
“Just another day in the life of an international cricketer, hey,” Joe remarks, a little quietly.

Mitch leans back in his too-small seat, stretching out his long legs given that there’s, thankfully, nothing in front of him.  
“Yeah,” Mitch agrees, even though he’s already starting to feel that it’s way too frantic, with no less than five flights just to arrive at his destination, before they can even play. “You’ll be there soon enough too, I’m sure.”  
They fall silent for a moment, not quite sure what to say next.  
“Are you still at the gym at the moment?” Mitch asks.  
“Yes,” Joe agrees.   
Jonny’s there too, but he doesn’t mention that.

+

It’s a sunny afternoon in Canterbury, when Andrew wins the toss and elects to field first. Yorkshire will chase under lights. Joe’s looking forward to that challenge, one which he’ll encounter often if he ever breaks into the England team. He’s thinking about it more and more, he realises, maybe because of his time with the England Lions. Perhaps it’s also because Mitch is away on international duty, playing against Afghanistan and Pakistan, and his Australian friend isn’t much older than him. Joe is dressed in his colours, hovering around the dressing room. He cups his hands in front of his face and twice blows quickly onto his palms, before rubbing them together.

Joe needs to be prepared in the field, so that he’s ready for whatever will come. Perhaps that final over at Headingley has been branded onto his hands like a scar. Joe realises, though, that if he wants to have success, he needs to move beyond such concerns. Match upon match lies before him, fingers crossed. They meander out onto the edge of the field. Joe glances towards the home dressing rooms. The Kent batsmen, Billings and Key, are already waiting by the thick boundary rope, pumping their legs. Joe quickly reaches for his teammates’ shoulders, huddling together. He listens to Andrew speak with urgency, but the plans are familiar and they’ve been over them before. They will target Billings with the spinners, looking to bring him down the track and dart the ball in. Key, alternatively, they believe is susceptible to fast-mediums. Joe knows this, but he listens, because he thinks that their captain deserves respect. Finally, though, they break away. Joe charges out onto the field alongside Jonny, who taps him between the shoulder blades.


	41. Chapter 41

There’s something of a buzz around Cardiff on finals’ day. Maybe it’s generated through the electrical field created through the Sky television cameras. Jonny laughs, to humble Joe, when he makes that suggestion to him, when they are warming up on the outfield not far from the live recording of a pre-match show. Together, they chuckle, tumbling around as the coaches toss them catches. Cricket is fun, even with the nerves which rise from Joe’s feet. They billow somewhere near his knees, but only when he lets them, and he’s not going to let them any time soon. At the end of the night, Joe could be standing with his Yorkshire teammates, raising the trophy.

It might be hit-and-giggle stuff, but winning is a drug which they’re all craving to become hooked on, no matter what form it takes. Form of the game, that is. Soon enough, they’re called off the field, to change from their training kit into their colours for the morning game. It’s not an unfamiliar time of the day. Joe’s played county matches that early. Twenty20 is a different beast, but it’s one that’s not supposed to be hard. At least, it’s not supposed to be as hard, at the beginning or the end.

+

There aren’t really enough dressing rooms. Four teams are playing at Sophia Gardens on the same day, and all will still be there at the end. It must have been a balancing act, making sure that the teams don’t get too close. In the end, Yorkshire is sharing a dressing room with Somerset. They are not playing each other in the semi-final, but they could be facing off in the final. If that does turn out to be the case, though, Joe’s aware of the protocol, that they would separate to keep that distance, before and after the match. He’s not sure, though, whether it would be his own team or the Somerset lads who would be required to move. Yorkshire, probably, because they play the first game and would have more time.

Joe knows that it’s all theoretical at this stage, though, before a ball’s even been bowled. He removes his cap as he rushes into the dressing room, head down, because he doesn’t know every lad who has been crammed into the space. Joe looks up a little, though, to locate the locker space which he’s been designated, where his coffin resides. The big screen still informs him that Andrew has won the toss and elected to bat first, to get runs on the board. In Twenty20, Joe bats at three, but to him that’s just the same as opening, because he needs to be padded up and ready right from when the Sussex fielders run out with fireworks all around them.

Joe unzips his coffin and retrieves his gear, in the two-tone blue of the Vikings. He lays out a shirt in which to bat, along with a long pair of pants. Briefly, Joe glances up, towards the dressing room windows, at the bright and sunny day outside. He’ll bat in short sleeves to keep himself cool, even though it’s late in the summer, because he’ll wear sunscreen. The English sun is never quite as beating as Mitch has described Australia to be, so Joe will be fine. Everything else is familiar, no matter the match. Jockstrap. Box. Thigh pad. Right pad. Left pad. Joe won’t bother with his inners and his gloves just yet, because he won’t put them on until, or if, the wicket falls.

Joe lays out his belongings, carefully, on top of his clothes, then counts over everything. All is accounted for, so he zips back up his coffin and kicks it just under the seat, so that there’s enough room to walk around. Joe bundles up his equipment, swaddling it amongst his clothes like a baby. A smile creeps onto his lips, especially when he stands up straighter and catches a glimpse of the growing crowd. There are so many young boys and girls out there, brimming with enthusiasm. Joe trudges back into the showers. He can hear one running, but it doesn’t bother him, as he finds an empty cubicle and dumps his stuff down on the tiles. Joe secures the door again behind him. He removes his shirt and replaces it with his playing shirt, with his name on his back.

Joe drops his shorts to his ankles, pulling them off over his boots. He doesn’t bother to fold them. Joe reaches for his match trousers, so that they’re ready and waiting, before retrieving, and fitting to his body, his jockstrap and box. He’s about to fetch his pants again. Joe halts, though, when he hears a muffled scream emitted from one of the other showers, the one where the water’s running. It’s a little too chilling. Quickly, and not thinking about his modesty, Joe reaches for the door and pops open the lock, holding the door ajar as he peers out, eyes narrow. He listens as the water is yanked off, with not much conviction.  
“I’m alright,” a Somerset accent insists.

Joe’s eyes trail down, to water trickling out from underneath the shower door, alongside a bare foot. There’s no-one around, so he’s not overly concerned anymore, and stays out of the cubicle.  
“That’s good,” Joe replies. “What did you do to yourself, lad?”  
He’s not entirely sure who the Somerset player is, to be perfectly honest, but he holds his suspicions already.  
“I slipped over,” the man explains. “You’re Rooty, yeah.”  
“Yes, lad,” Joe confirms. “I guess you’re not one of my lads.”  
“Yeah, Jos,” he answers.

+

Jos is sitting up on the small shower seat with only a white towel wrapped around the lower half of his body. Water still trickles down his bare seat, marked with curly tufts of chestnut hair. Joe’s seen a few shirtless men in his time around dressing rooms, but he knows that the natural look, so to speak, isn’t in fashion anymore, to the point that he knows he waxes his own chest, something that Mitch’s ample supply of strips came in handy for. He’s not sure why he’s thinking of any of this, though. Jos’ pale blue eyes meet his own gaze lingering halfway down his frame. They trail down Joe’s body and it’s only then when he feels a little immodest, but he senses the feeling’s mutual between them. He distracts himself by looking at the blood marking Jos’ temple.

“My goodness, lad,” Joe remarks, taking a step forward and placing his hand on Jos’ damp hair. “You’ve gone a good job of this.”  
Jos grimaces and Joe studies his expression, trying to work out how much pain he’s in. He squints a little, concerned.  
“Is it bad?” Jos asks, his voice not much above a whisper.  
“There’s blood,” Joe observes.  
“I can feel it,” Jos admits.  
Joe glances around the shower cubicle, not quite sure what to do.

“Use my shirt, if you want,” Jos suggests, “to hold on it until I can find a bandage or something.”  
Joe grabs up the balled-up Somerset training shirt and carefully presses the least sweaty patch of the fabric against Jos’ wound. He smiles, to reassure him.  
“You’ll be alright,” Joe insists.  
Jos laughs with a hint of modesty. His blue eyes trail away under the shirt.  
“I’m embarrassed, if anything,” Jos confesses. “I’m glad that you were here and so willing to help.”  
He scans Joe’s body, dressed but with only half of his equipment on.  
“Otherwise I would have dripped blood all over the dressing room before I could have reached anyone,” Jos admits, clenching his jaw a little.

Joe grins.  
“It’s the least I could have done,” he insists.  
“I’m sure that it’s almost right now,” Jos advises. “I’m happy to let you go and finish getting ready to play and one of my boys can patch me up.”  
Carefully, Joe pulls back the shirt. It’s stained with a small patch of Jos’ scarlet blood. It still rims a gash on his temple, the soft skin angrily broken. Joe glances around the shower cubicle and locates the offending soap dish. He suppresses a giggle and Jos smiles, a little bemused.  
“You must be very talented,” Joe comments.

“Why do you say that, Joe?” Jos wants to know.  
“Well,” Joe replies, a little embarrassed. “To fall over in the first place, and then to clip your pretty face on the only sharp surface around.”  
Jos chuckles modestly.  
“I try to be talented,” he quips in response, a little self-effacingly.  
“I think that we all do,” Joe agrees, and no more needs to be said for either of them, for a moment at least.  
He shakes out Jos’ shirt.

“You’ll need to wash your shirt,” Joe advises. “There’s a little bit of blood on it, nothing that a good soak won’t fix, though.”  
Jos nods his tender head, slowly. Joe meets his eye, then briefly glances over his shoulder, listening to the rooms.  
“Would you like me to rinse it for you?” he offers.  
“That would be lovely if you’d be so kind,” Jos agrees. “Finish getting yourself ready first, though. I don’t think that Mr Andrew Gale would take too kindly to his first-drop fawning over a wounded adversary rather than heading out to bat when needed.”

There’s a quiet confidence about the Somerset player which Joe didn’t necessarily expect, from their previous brief encounters. He’s heard whispers about their captain before, but he’s never much listened to them, because they run counter to his own experience of the man thus far, so he doesn’t pay them credit.  
“Well,” Joe counters, his cheeks warm with politeness. “It wouldn’t be the Yorkshire way to not help someone out, that’s what I’ve thought.”  
“Yeah,” Jos agrees. “I’m grateful, truly. I’ll have to share a cider with you later to express it.”  
“Is that the Somerset way?” Joe wants to know.

“Yes,” Jos answers. “I think that it would be. Anything with cider’s the Somerset way.”  
Joe chuckles, leaning back a little as if the door frame’s close enough to rest against it, while he folds Jos’ shirt carefully.  
“Well,” he adds. “I would love to take you up on that, sometime later tonight.”  
Jos goes quiet, swallowing and leaning back, pondering, and it’s only then when Joe realises that his friendship may have been misplaced, given that they could conclude the night one as victor and one as the conquered.  
“We’ll see how the day pans out,” Jos admits, “and if my brains are still in my head.”  
“You’ll be fine,” Joe insists, stepping out onto the corridor and reaching for the door.


	42. Chapter 42

Nursing duties over, Joe heads out to bat at thirteen for one four balls into the second over. He’s swinging his arms to warm them up. It’s a little earlier than Joe probably would have like to have been out there. Still, he’s glad that he has the chance to properly build an innings and put his stamp on the semi-final. Joe reaches the wicket, at the non-striker’s end because the batsmen crossed in the taking of the previous catch. Jacquesy affirms Joe’s wellbeing with a thumbs-up, then they stroll down to glove-punch. He walks backwards to the non-striker’s end, watching while Styris, the New Zealander, runs in again.

Joe creeps forward while he bowls to Jacquesy. The ball is full and the Australian successfully blocks out the yorker back to the bowler.  
“No run,” he calls out.  
Joe holds up a thumbs-up in confirmation as he scurries back into his crease. He glances around the ground to soak in the atmosphere, as the Welsh crowd fills in. Almost too quickly, Styris bowls again and Jacquesy squirts the ball to mid-on. It’s a good over by anybody’s reckoning, given that the wicket fell. Joe and Jacquesy stroll down the wicket to chat briefly in between the overs, although the Sussex fielders are running briskly. He knows the tactic, to increase the pace of the game in the early overs, so that they’ll disappear before the Yorkshire batsmen have realised. Were Joe captaining them, he’d be encouraging the same. That’s why he waits with Jacquesy, mumbling about nothing in particular, until the new bowler’s cap is removed and he’s tossing the ball in his hands. It’s only then when Joe ambles back to what is now the striker’s end, and makes his guard with precision.

+

They’re not told to move dressing rooms straight after their victory, in case Hampshire win against Somerset and there’s no need. Joe’s surprised that the first thing he spots when returning from the field is Jos’ wide grin. A patch of bandage tape covers his temple.  
“Right to head out there?” Joe queries.  
“Yes,” Jos agrees quickly. “It aches a little bit, but I’ll be fine.”  
He holds eye contact with Joe.  
“Good victory,” Jos praises.  
Joe blushes a little with modesty and runs one hand through his blonde hair, a little damp with sweat.

“Thanks, lad,” he replies. “Jonny played excellently.”  
Joe glances around the dressing room for the red-haired wicketkeeper. He’s not there, though, because his face is being beamed onto the big screens, displaying his interview for the television. Joe assumes that Jonny’s standing near the boundary rope, somewhere.  
“He showed them, didn’t he?” Jos remarks.  
Jonny’s non-selection for England has been somewhat unspoken amongst the Yorkshire boys, but Jos is not one of them, after all.   
“Yes,” Joe affirms, beaming. “Indeed he did.”

He looks back at Jos, rather than over his shoulder. The Somerset player rises to his feet.  
“Well,” Jos says, perhaps for want of anything else. “I guess I’d better start warming up.”  
“Good luck, lad,” Joe wishes.  
As Jos takes a step forward, he taps him on the shoulder to provide polite encouragement.

Jos smiles.  
“Thank you,” he replies.  
“Although,” Joe retorts cheekily, “I won’t be saying that tonight.”  
Jos laughs and waves, then walks away to join his teammates already heading down the stairs.

Joe watches him all the way until he’s out of sight, then spots Jonny returning. Beaming, he steps out onto the balcony and applauds wholeheartedly, until his hands are a little sore. When Jonny arrives, finally, Joe wraps him into a tight hug.  
“You showed them,” he insists, breathing in the tang of triumph in Jonny’s hair.  
“Yeah,” Jonny agrees, and Joe can feel both of their faces blooming into grins of joy, Jonny’s jaw against his shoulder.  
Finally, they break their embrace.  
“Shower, lad,” Joe advises, “and then put your feet up before tonight.”

Jonny mimes sniffing his own armpit, then chuckles.  
“I think that would be best for everyone,” he remarks.  
Joe laughs, staying in place while Jonny walks away, back into the dressing room and heading for his coffin. Joe steps over to the door.  
“Careful,” he advises. “Buttler from Somerset slipped over this morning.”  
Jonny raises a bemused expression.  
“He was probably practising wicket-keeping or something,” Joe jokes.  
“That’s as close as he’s getting, poor thing,” Jonny retorts.


	43. Chapter 43

Mitch bowls the second over of the second innings against Afghanistan, at almost twenty past ten at night. He’s grateful that it’s not stifling hot, hence the reason for playing overnight, although there’s still already a clammy sensation between his shirt and his back. Mitch glances around his field, as Michael waves his arms to set it with precision. Finally, once the captain settles himself in second slip, Mitch can run into bowl. He spears the ball full, landing it on a good length, allowing the batman to squirt it out towards mid-off, who fields. George wipes the ball on the small white towel hanging from his trousers. Mitch resists the urge to pinch at his shirt.

A smile creeps onto his lips, given that his first delivery swung. He doesn’t want to compromise that by getting his hands too sweaty, at least not until his first spell of the night is complete. Mitch receives the ball from George, then inspects it on the way back to his mark. It’s still relatively pristine, but he blows well over the ball just in case, even though he knows it won’t do a great deal, but it’s all he’s allowed. Mitch pitches up further and raises one hand. The batsman just manages an inside edge onto his green pads. Wadey makes some quip that Mitch wouldn’t want to repeat. He stalks down the wicket, feeling a little like a vulture. Mitch fetches the ball in his fingertips, then returns to his mark without a last look. He runs in again and bowls a shorter delivery, which is pushed on the bounce to extra cover.

+

Joe is hunched over in the dressing room. His throat feels far too narrow as his fingertips rest on his cracked lips, his nails already jagged beyond the point of no return. Joe finds himself leaning even further forward. Fourteen is needed for victory off the final six deliveries, which is exactly what Hampshire took off Bressy. Joe’s not blaming him, though, because it proves that it’s achievable. There’s a faithless worm starting to burrow through his gut, though, which says that it’s easier to score at over two runs a ball when there’s no expectation to do so, when pretty much any score will do. For Yorkshire, though, the task is very simple, but incredibly hard.

Really, they only need thirteen, because of some sort of Harry Potter magic which hands them the victory regardless if there’s a tie. Joe doesn’t like to think in those terms, though. He’s not really wanting to think at all, at the moment. Wood runs in. There’s a comforting hand between Joe’s shoulder blades. Bressy’s on strike, slogging a full ball high into the dark Welsh sky. Joe’s lips part, his hands slipping from them and freezing. His eyes dart between the sprinting batsmen and the frantic fielders. A roar erupts from around the wicket, when the catch is taken. Slowly and a little sombrely, Rich dons his gloves and leaves for the crease.

“Play well, lad,” Joe encourages, although the words seem to catch in his throat.  
He claps, without pace, but his hands are soon too sore. Music blasts throughout the ground. Thirteen – no, fourteen runs – needed off five legal deliveries, now. Miller, from South Africa, will take strike, having crossed. Joe’s mind is cast back to the solemn theatrics of Azeem’s final over at Leeds. Wood bowls a full toss and Joe gasps at the swing of Miller’s bat. He feels his shoulders sink as the batsman can’t get underneath it and squirts it to extra cover. Miller and Rich scurry through for a single, but then can achieve no more, not even with the hope of regaining the strike.

Four balls remaining, thirteen runs needed. Joe feels himself sinking a little, back into his seat and the security of feeling fingers against his shirt. Rich faces another full toss. He secures a single down to third man, to give the strike back to Miller. Twelve runs needed off three balls. A six would be handy, a four required to keep it possible. Joe knows, though, that there’s been no proof so far of its inevitability. Wood goes around the wicket to bowl to Miller, who manages to squeeze the ball out to deep midwicket. They run hard, but ultimately only for a single. Miller makes sure that his bat is grounded, then relaxes his stance. He shakes his head despondently, and Joe swallows hard. Eleven runs needed off two balls. Rich will need to swing hard. There’s nothing to lose, but everything to lose. Joe’s stomach sinks. The double-shot of wickets fall in a hurry, and soon enough the Hampshire players are embracing for their ten-run victory. Joe turns, and the hand on his back has been Jos’ all along.


	44. Chapter 44

Gary walks back into the rooms with a spring in his step. It’s really anyone’s guess why, Joe reckons. He glances up from where he’s been tending to his bats after a long day’s training, the day after the Final.  
“Andrew’s injured again,” Gary announces, and Joe can’t help but feel a little uncomfortable at the grin he’s still possessing. “I’ll be captaining Yorkshire for the first time tomorrow. I’m so excited, it will be excellent.”

Joe stares at him with his blue eyes wide open, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. Sure, he understands the words coming out of Gary’s mouth, given his good hearing and grasp of the language, especially given that they’re standing close enough to each other in an otherwise relatively-quiet away dressing room. Andrew has struggled with injuries over the past couple of years, between his troublesome wrist and hip. Joe hasn’t been blind to the captain’s grimaces with his movements, as he pushed through to ensure that he’s around for the final.   
“Congratulations,” he wishes, sensing that Gary’s expecting him to speak.

“Thanks, Joe,” Gary replies.  
Joe’s not sure if he keeps talking or not. He thinks that he does, for just a little quiet, then stops and ambles away towards his coffin, to start unpacking his gear. Joe remains in position, like he’s frozen by the chilly, overcast day. More to the point is the news – the loss of their captain and the traditional, but unexpected, replacement in Gary and his continuous grin. Azeem has captained Yorkshire for some Twenty20 matches, getting the nod in Andrew’s place in the past. Joe moves for the first time again, to take a step forward towards the windows at the front of the dressing room.

He searches for Azeem, who’s cutting a lonely figure collecting stumps from the outfield.  
“Azeem’s not playing,” Gary announces, ambling back over as if he can read Joe’s mind. “We trust your spin.”  
Joe nods his head a little quicker than he would have liked to.  
“Thank you,” he replies, feeling recognised a least for something he does.  
Joe shrugs his shoulders in a feeble attempt to restore some sort of life or movement into his body, then meanders back over. He sits down, surrounded by his bats, and looks upon them fondly, picking up one particular blade and waving it around. Joe’s not jealous of Gary, truly. Still, he would have liked to be captain, and perhaps he has been considered and decided against, in favour of Gary. Joe could ask Dizzy or Andrew, but he doesn’t want to, in case he doesn’t like the answer. His head hits the back of the locker seat with a thump sorer and louder than he intended, then he reaches into the side pocket of his coffin to fetch his vice.

+

It’s only two days later when Yorkshire are expected to front up against Warwickshire, at Scarborough. As he walks out to bat five balls into the reduced second innings, Joe finds thought of his own bed creeping into his mind. They burrow like parasites. It’s sinful, for Joe’s limbs to feel so limp as he marks his guard. He swings them around to restore some feeling, then breathes out shakily. Joe’s achieved his goal, at least enough to move into his batting stance and face up to the Warwickshire bowler. Carter aims for the top of off stump and Joe plays at the delivery, even though, thankfully, it’s too wide to take the edge.

Under his grille, he smiles cheekily as the umpire flings out his arms.  
“Wide ball,” he calls.  
Joe unstraps, then fastens again, the Velcro attached to his gloves. He breathes in through his nose as the ball makes its way around the infield, settling in the bowler’s hands. Carter runs in again and bowls to Joe, the straight delivery on his pads which he should have opened to the new batsman with all along, similar to the pill which pinned Lyth. Joe jams down his bat to play a defensive shot for no runs. He’s not yet in the mood for conversation, so he looks down at the pitch.

Joe remarks his guard without consulting the umpire. He scratches the spikes of his shoes vigorously into the surface of the pitch. Joe raises his eyes again, before Carter runs in. He bowls a delivery in between the first two that Joe faced. Joe reaches it with the face of his bat. He hits the ball along the ground, straight to the fielder at mid-on.  
“No run,” Joe hollers, to no-one in particular.  
He thinks that he hears Carter sniggering at he heads back to his mark. Retorts start to shape in Joe’s mind. He suppresses them briskly with a sharp exhalation. Nothing Joe could say back would be clever or smart.

For a reason, he has two feet and his own bat with which to talk. Joe’s getting his eye in, though, he reasons, but there’s something skittish about his movements, the way that his bat seems to move faster than the ball. Carter bowls left-arm, like Mitch, but he’s nowhere near as rapid. It takes Joe an extra moment to realise that the over has concluded, fielders racing around him. He walks down the wicket towards his batting partner, Alex, who is only nineteen years old. Joe feels like he should be the senior partner, although he feels at sea. He makes eye contact with the younger man, inviting him to share his insights, before he remembers that all Alex has done so far is watch, helplessly, from the non-striker’s end.

Alex narrows his eyes a little as Joe shakes his head. He compels himself to smile and presents a fist to glove-punch.  
“Go well, lad,” Joe encourages, and he means it, before heading to the non-striker’s end, quickly.  
He relaxes against the crease, thick and bright, having been freshly marked in the break. Joe glances around the field, determined to overcome his own glumness, overwhelming like the grey clouds closing in on the Scarborough ground. Joe wouldn’t mind more rain.


	45. Chapter 45

Mitch is bowling his fifth over in Sharjah, with a silly mid-on in place. Pakistan are two wickets down after Patto’s early strikes. Mitch bowls full, outside the off stump, and is driven along the ground. George fields at cover, no run. He shines the ball on the back of his trousers, then tosses the ball back to Mitch. It’s too much of a risk to send it around the field. Mitch bowls again, aiming to replicate his previous delivery and bring about another dot ball. What eventuates is a half-volley, smashed through the field by the Pakistani batsman, for four. Mitch turns and returns to the top of his mark. He’s aware of how mindful they have to be, as always, about the over-rate.

The heat, though, even at night, seems to be all-consuming and devouring. All of Mitch’s skin is covered with a damp sheen of uncomfortable sweat. He wipes his hands studiously on the towel hanging from the back of his trousers. Mitch tries to keep his hands as dry as possible for when he receives the ball back from Patto, fielding near the rope. They can look to preserve it if they put more energy into their throws. Mitch stands at the top of his mark, glancing down towards the batsman waiting for him at the other end of the pitch, already in his stance. He runs in and bowls, again aiming for the top of off stump, the sort of delivery that could get the nick through to Wadey. The extra width offered by Mitch, though, allows another crunching drive. He doesn’t look, shaking his hand and recognising the boundary being scored through the cheering of the crowd.

+

All is settled after the victory, when Mitch is carrying around an oversized cheque.  
“Quick, lads,” Patto calls out.  
He is frantically packing away his gear, shoving his bowling boots into his coffin.  
“What’s the matter?” Mitch wants to know.

“We need to get back on the bus if we want a beer,” Patto explains.  
Mitch, personally, isn’t that desperate. He’d like a beer but it’s not urgent. He feels compelled, though, by the frantic movements of his teammates to hurry up. Mitch packs his coffin as quickly as he can, then drags it after him along with his cheque. George sidles up beside him.  
“It’s alright,” he reassures calmly. “Take your time. We’ll be fine. Also--.”  
George gestures towards the giant cheque.  
“That’s just for show,” he explains. “The actual money goes through the manager to get back to us eventually.”  
George upturns his lips.  
“Probably, it’s funding our beers,” he admits. “Anyway, what I’m saying is that you don’t have to lug that around everywhere if you don’t want to. Of course, though, if you’d like to--.”  
George is beaming.  
“It’s a nice momento,” he confesses.


	46. Chapter 46

Mitch is lying on his hotel bed, wearing only his pink shorts, while the fan swirls above him. He’s flicking through his phone while he relaxes, to numb his mind. Mitch is grateful for the free wi-fi at the hotel, a luxury he’s not so used to. Perhaps it’s the way of the future. Mitch isn’t reading anything in particular, until one news item catches his attention.

_Strauss retires from all forms of cricket_

Mitch clicks on the article, then sends it through to Joe.

_Your chance Joey_

Mitch thinks about adding an emoji, but he doesn’t.

 

He’s comfortable making that assessment, because he’s heard the talk from people he trusts. Joe’s not guaranteed, but likely. The response is not a text message, but a call.

“Hello,” Mitch answers quickly.

“Hey, Mitch,” Joe replies, his voice a little thin.

“I take it you’ve already heard about Strauss,” Mitch mentions.

“Yeah,” Joe confirms. “Dizzy told us after we were allowed back to the motel.”

There’s something missing from his voice, but Mitch thinks that he’s probably imagining it owing to the phoneline, across countries and time zones.

 

“The rain hasn’t hesitated, I see,” Mitch points out.

“Yeah,” Joe confirms. “It’s the flavour of the season I think. No wonder Strauss wanted to retire.”

Mitch draws his eyebrows closer together.

“Everything alright, Joey?” he checks.

 

“Yeah,” Joe confirms. “I guess, I’m a little bit disappointed about Straussy, you know. He’s been a fabulous servant of English cricket and I, I guess I’ll miss seeing him play, being able to trust in him.”

Mitch does understand, on some level. It only makes him admire Joe more, that that would be his first perspective, rather than seeking the position for himself now that Strauss is out of the way.

 

A little bit of guilt seeps into Mitch that that has been his own first reaction, on behalf of his friend. English cricket seems like Joe’s distant domain, separated from the rainy world of Yorkshire.

“I get what you mean,” Mitch admits. “You’ve still got Cook there.”

“That’s true,” Joe agrees. “I suppose Cooky will become the new Straussy. He’s been given the captaincy, I think that he’ll be good at that. Leadership will suit him well, even though he’s young.”

 

“And then somebody’s got to become the new Cooky,” Mitch reminds, trying a gentler approach.

“Yeah,” Joe agrees.

Mitch waits, just in case he wants to say more.

“Do you think?” he asks, but doesn’t continue, just in case such talk would make Joe anxious.

“It’s possible,” Joe concedes. “I mean, my goodness Mitch. I would love for them to pick me, but I don’t want to get my hopes up.”


	47. Chapter 47

Mitch comes into bat in the second-to-last over. Australia are eight down and Johnno, who’ll be on strike, is at the other end.  
“What’s the plan, buddy?” Mitch asks.  
He keeps his voice quiet so the fielders won’t hear.  
“Bat on ball first, mate,” Johnno answers. “Try to swing for it if you can, I’d like to see what runs are still left out here.”  
Mitch nods his head. Johnno provides an encouraging pat to the shoulder, before they walk away from each other down the pitch. Mitch makes sure that the toe of his bat is grounded behind the crease, then he turns to look towards the bowler.   
“Come on,” he urges himself.  
Mitch scurries forward to back up.

+

Mitch isn’t quite sure exactly when the ache creeps over him. He first recalls it slipping underneath his taut and flat muscles as he reaches out to receive the ball in one hand. Mitch hides his discomfort within his face, however, clasping his fingers around the white leather and ensuring that he keeps walking. It sneaks up along his skin, under his shirt, when he bowls short. Mitch follows through with just a little trepidation. The ball is clubbed by the batsman through midwicket. As the boundary is scored, Mitch raises his shoulders a little. Maybe it’s just the humidity, but he’s learned to know his own body.

Mitch’s own body doesn’t crave cricket in these lethargic conditions, even though it has made itself into one for fast bowling. His long legs are still holding up though, his rigid torso tender. Mitch notices the dissatisfaction feebly hidden by Michael’s expression. Especially with their small total, he cannot afford to concede boundaries. Mitch is grateful when a change of ends is suggested and Johnno comes onto replace him, if only for the over’s respite. He stands at deep fine leg, hoping that the ball will not find him. Carefully, Mitch lifts his arms above his head. He stretches to see if he can, but pain ripples through his chest. It’s not tightness, at least not high enough to be married with panic.


	48. Chapter 48

It approaches four o’clock in Scarborough, around the time when play has been abandoned on the previous day. Joe glances around the dressing room at the lethargic atmosphere. As rain still falls upon the covers, he feels less lonely in his desire to return to the motel, to sleep comfortably and hope for the rain to clear. Feet up, Dizzy is flicking through the newspaper. He folds it over and abandons it, rising to his feet and ambling over to the desk where the coach’s laptops are located, the only ones permitted in the dressing room. Joe watches as Dizzy briefly taps away at it. He can’t see, though, what he’s looking at, thanks to the angle of the screen within the darkened dressing room.

Joe doesn’t want to pry, though, and knowing Dizzy, he’s probably checking the weather for the following day.   
“I reckon we’ll get on tomorrow,” Dizzy comments.   
Joe’s suspicions are confirmed, and a smile creeps onto his lips, his shoulders rising a little. Adil laughs.  
“Really?” he checks. “Nobody’s been right so far.”  
“Yes,” Dizzy affirms. “I’ve just checked the radar and the forecast, the rain is supposed to blow away overnight and so we should be able to at least get some play tomorrow.”

Joe flicks his gaze towards the blustering flags on the opposite side of the ground and supports the theory, even though rain still tumbles down. He hears footsteps tapping against the steps which lead up to the balcony. With a knock at the door, Dizzy answers it, and the reserve umpire pops his head in.  
“There’ll be an inspection shortly,” he announces.   
Some incredulous expressions are presented back at him, given that everybody can still witness rain puddling on the covers.  
“We don’t like our chances, though,” the umpire points out. “Like yesterday, it’s really just a formality so that we can confidently call off a hope of play and send you all home for the night.”

“Thanks, mate,” Dizzy replies, then closes the door again after the umpire shuffles away with a nod of his head, umbrella hovering over him.   
He turns towards the lads, but they don’t need verbal instruction to pack up. There’s not much to do, given that it’s the second day in a row without play. Joe scans his locker area and glances down at his coffin, tucked away behind his calves. He reaches down towards it. Joe unzips blindly, given that he’s watching their two umpires step out onto the field. His fingers close around a cardboard packet, but he doesn’t pull it out. As the umpires approach the groundsmen, Joe’s eyes slip down. A smile creeps onto his lips, when he identifies not his cigarettes. Somehow, there’s a spare packet of cards in his coffin. Joe thought that he’s given them to Mitch, at the airport, but there’s something left. As he pulls them out, Adil spots them and rises to his feet.  
“There you go, Rooty,” he comments. “They would have been handy yesterday morning.”

+

Joe and Adil sit cross-legged on the floor of a motel room. They clutch their decks in their hands, four eyes staring each other down. Some cards still remain piled on the carpet, but they’re thinning. Joe’s the proud owner of three pairs – the four of hearts and the four of diamonds, the five of clubs and the five of hearts the king of spades and the king of clubs. Adil is one ahead, with the nine of diamonds and the nine of spades, the four of clubs and the four of spades, the three of diamonds and the three of hearts, and, finally, the jack of clubs and the jack of hearts. Joe knows, though, that his teammate and friend possesses a seven, a seven which he could pair with his own.

“Do you have a seven?” he asks, wearing a cheeky smirk on his lips.  
Adil sighs with mock disappointment as he theatrically plucks the card from his fingers. He presents it to Joe, who giggles as he partners it with his own card. Joe places down the seven of hearts and the seven of clubs alongside his pairs.  
“We’re even,” he surveys and Adil nods his head slowly in circumspect response.  
“Do you have an ace?” Adil asks.  
“Sorry, lad, can’t help you there,” Joe replies, pretending to study his cards.  
He possesses the two of spades, queen of hearts, eight of diamonds and nine of clubs. Joe knows now, though, that Adil has an ace. If he needs one, he’s aware that he can ask. Adil fetches a card from the pile and his eyes widen. He looks towards Joe, inviting him to have his turn.

+

Mitch sits on the dressing room balcony, Aussie gold pads strapped around his halves. His batting gloves are draped over his thighs, along with inners borrowed from Michael. It’s much too hot and humid to be wearing gloves before they’re absolutely necessary. Sharjah couldn’t be more different from Yorkshire and its county surrounds, on the cold and rainy days Joe is still experiencing, where gloves of any kind are almost a necessity. Only seven runs are needed for victory, with ample deliveries left. Still, Mitch is next in to bat, and he feels guilty that he desperately wants Maxi and Johnno to finish the job, without his involvement required. He doesn’t trust himself, not at this terrible hour of the night with the sweat pooling down his back.

Maxi swings at the next delivery and Mitch finds himself creeping a little out of his seat in reply, willing the ball towards the boundary as he presses down hard on his bat. He allows himself a brief smile when the ball goes for four, leaving only three runs required for victory. Suddenly, with the remainder more than halved, the task gets a little easier. Mitch briefly flicks his eyes towards the large screen presenting itself as a scoreboard. Maxi swings again, hitting the ball away for a single. Mitch rises to his feet along with his teammates, to applaud the half-century. It’s a achievement for Maxi, undoubtedly, to reach fifty for the first time in Australia’s international colours.

Mitch claps with his clammy hands. The circumspect nature of Maxi’s raise of his bat doesn’t go unnoticed, before he sits back down. The job is still left to be completed, something which his teammate knows, as he faces up again. Two runs needed. They’re almost out of the woods, although not quite yet, not until there’s only one run to win and a tie could go down in the history books. Johnno receives the bowling and flicks the ball away off his pads to fine leg. Mitch nods his head rhythmically to provide silent applause. Only one run left to win the match, and the series, now. Mitch could still be required, but hopefully with Maxi on strike, he won’t be. He hits the next ball hard, along the ground and straight to point. A cheer bursts out amongst the ground, which could be a still ironic. Mitch flashes a wry grin. Cricket doesn’t change much across the world. Maxi launches the next ball high into the air and Mitch rises to his feet. The victory has been achieved, and he applauds wholeheartedly before even ripping off his pads.


	49. Chapter 49

Joe feels at home at Headingley. He’s perched on the balcony under overcast skies. Joe trusts his home weather, though, that they won’t leak with rain. Andrew, recovered from his injury, is swapping team lists with the Glamorgan captain, Wallace. Joe watches with anticipation as Andrew flicks the coin into the air. He doesn’t hear, doesn’t know, doesn’t care about the call, because that’s out of their hands at home. Joe watches Andrew intently. He and Wallace shake hands once the match referee has inspected the coin. It’s Andrew who speaks to him. Joe grins, then quickly covers his mouth with his cupped hands. He blows into them, then rubs them together to warm them up. Joe suspects that they’ll be heading out into the field, with good bowling conditions and a green wicket in front of them. Andrew confirms this suspicion when he mimes a bowling action when walking off the field. Joe turns around and spots Hodd, unzipping his own coffin to fetch his gloves. Jonny is not around either, because he’s been selected again in the England squad for the limited-overs matches. He hasn’t played yet, though.

+

After the second day’s play, Joe rushes home as quickly as he can, from his beloved ground to his television. When they have come off the field, Dizzy provides a score update, that England are batting first, but haven’t lasted fifty overs. Joe becomes aware, shortly after, that the scorecard really isn’t promising. He leans forward with his palms together and rocks back and forth.  
“Oh, Jonny,” Joe laments as he watches the shot in the innings break highlights which his friend has played.  
He knows exactly what he will have been trying to do, to improvise and demonstrate his enormous skill and flair.

With Kiesy behind the stumps, Jonny’s playing for England only as a batsman. This places even more scrutiny on his shots, although it’s not like the rest of his teammates have done much better, with England 182 all out. Joe leans back against the cushions. He puts his feet up as he relaxes into the lounge, nothing else that he can do. Joe watches as the England fielders jog out into the field, with the South African batsmen not far behind them. He’s aware from the graphics on his screen that Cooky, soon-to-be Test captain, has elected to bat. Perhaps there are demons in the wicket, but Joe doubts that. If there are, though, Anderson will find them.


	50. Chapter 50

Mitch’s side strain gets the better of him. He’s ruled out by the medical staff of the first Twenty20. Mitch doesn’t even have to carry the drinks, sitting in the comfort of the air-conditioned dressing room. He doesn’t mind it, although of course he always prefers being out in the field with his teammates, playing the game he adores for the country he loves with the men he’s learning to admire. Australia bat first after they’re sent in by Mohammed Hafeez, the Pakistani captain, and Mitch can only watch the procession. Third over, Watto trapped in front by Umar Gul. Fourth over, Mike falling to the wide ball and is caught at extra cover. Ninth over, leading edge from Davey. Tenth over, David holing out to gift a maiden international wicket to Raza Hasan.

Eleventh over, George caught in the deep after a slog sweep. Sixteenth over, Wadey caught at deep midwicket. Eighteenth over, Maxi caught at deep square leg, after replicating George’s shot. Eighteenth over, very next ball, White bowled by Saeed Ajmal’s skidding delivery. Twentieth, and final, over, Pat swings wildly and the ball ends up in the hands of long-on. To end the innings with three deliveries not used, Hilfy is caught behind for a second-ball duck. Mitch watches all of them. His expression is devoid of any joy, because none of the batsman have a reason to smile, with the Australian total only numbering eighty-nine. Mitch studies their reactions, though, learning something about each man.

Watto shakes his head all the way off the field and Mitch is pretty sure that he’s upset with himself, rather than the decision. Mike is calm as he departs into the dressing room, which is to be expected, especially after the year he’s had. Davey yells with rage, the loud rip of the Velcro as he strips off his pads not masking over the profanities he screams, even when Pat looks at him with incredulity. David is calm and circumspect, actually like his brother. George’s eyes are wide, like he can’t quite believe what’s just happening and is occurring all around him. Wadey swears under his breath, cursing each item of his equipment.

+

Joe’s blue eyes open. He feels a little bit of a jolt, not having realised that he has fallen asleep. Joe scans the screen, his vision a touch blurry before he’s properly woken up. He notices that South Africa only need thirty runs off nineteen overs. Joe slumps back into the lounge, resting his hands on his lower abdomen. He doesn’t go back to sleep, though, because now that he’s awake, he feels less tired. The camera pans around the boundary and Joe spots Jos on the screen, in England kit. He’s wearing a fluorescent vest over his shirt, given that he’s not in the playing XI. Jos’ clutching an orange container filled with green drink bottles. Joe suspects they’ll make the next drinks break, but the game won’t last much longer. Between Jos, Kiesy and Jonny, there are so many wicketkeepers around the England set-up, not even including Matt Prior. The Test spot is locked down, leaving the others to work on their fielding and hope for the best, or at the very least some one-day and Twenty20 games. Joe knows that Jonny, like himself, craves higher honours.

+

It’s Johnno who gives Mitch his Twenty20 international cap when he’s selected to make his debut in that format, when the series begins. He is beaming when he shakes the other man’s hand. Mitch takes the cap and places it on his head, then the group disperses. Johnno steps closer and places one hand on his shoulder, leaning in, only for his ears.  
“I meant what I said,” Johnno insists.  
“Thanks, mate,” Mitch replies.  
“Savour it,” Johnno implores.  
“I do,” Mitch vows, “I am.”

“Sometimes,” Johnno begins, then hesitates.  
“It’s hard to?” Mitch guesses.  
“Yeah,” Johnno confirms.  
“I know,” Mitch agrees.  
“Try not to know,” Johnno advises. “You’re a young bloke in the prime of your life. Enjoy it.”


	51. Chapter 51

Mitch takes the second over of the third match’s second innings. The required run rate for Pakistan is already up to eight-and-a-half runs per over. Mitch bowls a fairly straight delivery to the opener Imran Nazir and is pleased with the shape he achieves. Davey scurries away to field the ball behind point, to achieve a dot ball. Mitch walks back to his mark. The ball is returned to him quickly enough, aware of their over rate despite the lethargic, hot conditions which they are required to bowl and field in. Mitch’s next delivery is full and swings again. He grunts as it heads down the leg side. The umpire flings out his arms to call the wide ball, fetched by Wadey.

Mitch starts to shape an argument in his mind, but he doesn’t bother. He’s wary of his match fee. Mitch knows it would be the wrong thing to do, anyway, given that it’s not like the decision will be changed. He heads back to the top of his mark to ball again. At least the same batsman will be on strike. Mitch knows that he can try to build pressure through bowling dot balls. The ball pitches on off stump and swings into the green pads of Imran Nazir, prompting Mitch to turn quickly in his follow-through. He feels no pain as he raises his arms and shouts in vigorous appeal to the umpire, who raises one pointed finger in response.

Mitch roars with jubilation and pumps both fists. He turns around as Wadey rushes towards him, both gloves displayed. The team, clad in their uniforms, crowds in around Mitch, warm and encouraging, creating a barrier between him and the Pakistani batsman slowly trudging off the field with his head bowed in disappointment. He exchanges high-fives and hugs with as many of them as he can. They’re underway, one wicket down in defending their large-but-not-unassailable total. Mitch walks back to the top of his mark, after retrieving the ball from the umpire, with a smile on his face. He watches as Nazir Jamshed takes his guard, assisted by the umpire.

Mitch considers which ball he’s going to bowl and glances around the field. As set by George, it’s still stacked onto the off-side, given that it’s harder to hit to leg. Mitch is getting the ball to swing, so he’s looking to use the movement where he can to rush the batsman through his shot. These aims are running through his mind while he glides in and bowls. The pressure is intense on Mitch’s locked knee and ankle as he flings himself over to deliver the ball to Nazir Jamshed, who works against the swing to hit the ball into the covers.

\+ 

It’s only when Mitch returns to his lonely hotel room that he realises he’s broken his promise to Joe. He never has gotten back to play for Yorkshire again, at least not during the northern summer of 2012, given that they start their final match in the morning. Mitch lies on top of his bed, surrounded by darkness and only a hint of city lights leaking in from behind the curtain. He quickly emerges from bed, padding across the carpet to the desk, where his laptop is closed and charging. Mitch pulls up a chair in the dark. He sits down and opens the lid, pressing the small round button to turn it on. The laptop whirs and the screen lights up, forcing Mitch’s eyes to quickly adjust. A smile creeps onto his lips at the image of Alyssa on his lock screen.

He types in his password when requested, then leans back in his chair and waits for the desktop to load, icons placed over an image of the SCG. Mitch clicks on the Internet browser and somewhat blindly searches for flights, knowing that he’ll have to return. Long ago, he has booked a flight home to Sydney for September the sixteenth, two days after he thought that he’d finish with Yorkshire. To meet that commitment, and clean up and hand back over his flat, Mitch ought to return. Seeing Joe, too, will be an added bonus. Mitch relaxes in his seat, suddenly tired now that he’s not trying to sleep. He thinks of the fixture which Joe will be playing. He’ll be in Chelmsford from the eleventh to the fourteenth, and likely return to Leeds either that evening or the next morning.

It’s about a four-hour drive with the needed stops. Mitch reckons that Joe would want to return to his own bed. The rest of the squad are leaving in the morning to fly back to their respective cities in Australia. They get only a couple of days off before Sri Lanka. All of the dates and travel make Mitch’s head spin in response to their itinerary. He knows that he’s heading to Sri Lanka for the World Twenty20 – the squads have been released for almost a month. Mitch hopes that he’ll meet up with Alyssa there. The Australian squad hasn’t yet been announced, but they’re both hopeful. Jonny and Bressy will be there for England from Yorkshire, not that he’ll play against them until the finals, if even then, because the old enemies have been seeded in different groups.


	52. Chapter 52

Yorkshire finish their summer at the county ground at Chelmsford. On the opening morning, Joe stands on the balcony gazing out over the field, while Andrew wins the toss. He heads back into the dressing room, away from cloudy skies. Joe knows that it’s a forward-thinking move for Andrew to bat first, to use their spinners at the end of the match. Still, he’s a little wary of facing the new ball bowled by the Essex bowlers early doors. This is a challenge that Joe must take on, however, because there’s a hope of promotion. Derbyshire, who it seems they have played so often, are their main rivals.  
“We’re batting, aren’t we?” Gary checks.

“Yes,” Joe confirms.  
“You’ll bat five, so put your feet up,” Andrew reminds when he returns to the dressing room.  
He flashes a confident grin towards Adam and Joe, who are both unpacking their coffins to dress themselves to bat.  
“Lythy and Rooty will fill their boots,” Andrew predicts.  
He sits down on his chair near the doors and lifts his feet up onto a second deckchair, relaxing with his hands behind his head. Joe meets Andrew’s gaze, wide-eyed. The captain mimics his expression in an exaggerated fashion.

Joe finds himself blushing a little as he glances away, back to his coffin. He hastily collects what of his gear he can and bundles it into a jumper, taking it away. Essex is located in the south of England, as opposed to Yorkshire in the north, so Joe doesn’t spend that much time at Chelmsford. It’s Yorkshire’s first year relegated in a while. Still, dressing rooms don’t change much across the country. Joe finds the showers quickly enough, to dress himself in preparation for batting, and hears footsteps against the tiles. He steps into a shower cubicle and closes the door, but doesn’t lock it. Joe waits, sensing that there’s another teammate around and hoping that it’s not Andrew, although he wouldn’t admit that.

“Rooty,” a voice eventually speaks, and he recognises it to be Adam’s.  
“Yeah,” Joe responds.  
He listens to footsteps coming closer and he opens the door to his shower cubicle again, so that Adam can spot him. His opening partner stands outside, then steps in when Joe beckons him, feeling like they both need to chat. Adam leans against the wall, gear at his feet and hands behind his back, watching as Joe locks the door, placing his own equipment down on the tiles within the cubicle, locating another dry patch of floor to use.

He turns around, then sits down on the ledge. Joe and Adam peer at each other.  
“I’m nervous, Rooty, I’m really nervous,” he confesses.  
Joe nods his head slowly, keeping eye contact. He’s aiming both to offer support to his opening partner and to agree with his sentiments.  
“I mean,” Adam begins, then sighs, not quite sure what to say. “We’ll probably be promoted, maybe even finish top, but it’s up to us to make that happen, to make everybody happy.”  
“It’s not only up to us,” Joe reasons, feeling sudden leadership. “All the lads contribute, to make up for what happened last year.”

It’s still somewhat unspoken, the pain of relegation for a proud and established county like Yorkshire, the deprivation of Roses clashes in the County Championship. Joe smiles sadly and rises to his feet, knowing that they have limited time to get ready before they need to bat. He pats Adam’s shoulder briefly.  
“We’ll have each other, at least,” Joe reassures. “Let’s just take it one ball at a time.”  
Adam shakes his head, then casts his gaze towards the door.  
“I wouldn’t have minding losing the toss this morning, actually,” he admits.  
“Yeah,” Joe agrees. “Batting first, though, it’s what we need to do, to give Azeem a chance at the back end, to see if he can get some turn in the fourth innings, at the end.”

“He will, I think,” Adam proposes. “He’s a champion, that kid, no wonder they gave him the T20 captaincy for a bit.”  
“Yeah,” Joe agrees, fond smile on his lips. “Azeem’s a good lad.”  
He lets out a laugh, but it’s not mocking.  
“Azeem’s not that much younger than us,” Joe reminds.   
“You, maybe,” Adam retorts.  
“He’s only two months younger than me,” Joe calculates.  
“Making him four years younger than me, thereabouts,” Adam reminds.

Joe chuckles, fondly though.  
“I forget you’re old, Adam,” he quips.  
Adam laughs, taking no offence at Joe’s remark.  
“I’m twenty-six years old,” he points out. “Just because I don’t get asked for identification--.”

“That’s because you’re balding,” Joe fires back with a cheeky smirk.  
Adam flashes an expression of mock anger. He grins.  
“Rooty, can you tie your shoelaces yet?” Adam queries, sarcastically. “Did your mother pack your lunch today?”  
Joe laughs, feeling delight ripple through his body for the first time in a while. It’s unexpected, two men hiding away and taking the mickey, before the task ahead.

+

After bowling Essex out cheaply in the first innings, Joe and Adam head out to bat with an hour to survive on day two. They punch gloves three quarters of the way to the Chelmsford pitch. Then, Joe and Adam divert directions to head towards their respective ends, with Adam facing first. He usually does, something which Joe appreciates, because he does like the chance to look around and consider conditions. Topley will take the new ball, with his flowing locks like a prince in a Disney movie. Joe smiles under the grille of his helmet at the nickname he’s just thought of. He’ll use it later, but only if he’s already gotten the better of the bowler, so it doesn’t look like he’s letting his mouth, rather than his bat, do the talking. Topley bowls the first ball to Adam. It’s on the full side of a good length, shaping away as he plays and misses.  
“You good, Lythy?” Joe calls out.  
“Never been better, lad,” Adam replies.

+

Andrew declares with Azeem on seventy-five not out. Perhaps Joe would have liked to see him go on to score a hundred, it’s the right time unless he’s willing to wait. He feels the readiness in his body, to head out into the field and stand in the slips. After congratulating Azeem on his innings, Joe bounces out to the warm-ups. He practises some catching with Adam by his side, ready to head out into the field. Joe can barely believe that the summer is nearly over, that there’s only one innings left. It feels almost bittersweet, knowing that they have over a day to bowl Essex out and find themselves promoted. Joe’s ready, but the task is not yet complete.

As the Essex openers appear, Andrew gathers his players into a huddle on the boundary rope. His words wash over Joe, the same old captain’s clichés that nonetheless ring true. They know what they need to do, and there’s nothing left in the summer that they haven’t already executed. When they break away, Joe heads for Adam, and they charge out side by side. They find their positions fielding in the slips. Patterson will bowl the first over, to Westley from Essex. That TV show comes to mind, The Only Way Is Essex, one that Joe’s guiltily watched from time to time. There’s laughter on his lips as the first ball is bowled. It’s a good delivery and Westley plays and misses. Joe knows that there’s no edge, but he nonetheless raises his hands and applauds, lips tightly pulled into a circle.  
“Great bowling, lad,” he calls out, echoing around the county ground. “Just ten to get, lads. Ten left for the motorway.”

+

Patterson is three balls into bowling the fifty-second over of the second innings for Essex, with Yorkshire two wickets away from achieving the victory they need for promotion. Owais Shah is batting with Topley and Joe is standing in first slip. Adam is beside him in second, and there’s a smile on his lips. Joe hunches over and watches his teammate running into bowl. The delivery is full and Topley drives. Joe’s eyes widen at the sight of the thick outside edge, which he watches all the way into Adam’s waiting hands. Patterson charges towards them. Joe spots the umpire’s raised finger, for confirmation, out of the corner of his eye. Beaming, he wraps Adam into a tight hug.

“Nearly there,” Joe promises, only for the opening batsman’s cold ears. “We’re nearly there, nearly into the big boys’ league.”  
He doesn’t watch to count his chickens, though. Still, Joe can dream, and he knows that only Mills stands between them and victory. He watches as he’s imagining what’s going on in front of him, as his poles are uprooted on the very first ball he faces from Patterson. Joe and Adam wrap their arms around each other. It’s the two of them who remain, with Mitch and Jonny gone to international cricket. The Yorkshire team form a tight, tight huddle. They remain in the middle of the field, breathing in victory which smells like each other’s sweat. Joe feels high on it, the euphoria which continues as they finally break away. They move towards the umpires, to shake hands professionally and thank the men in black and white uniforms, before finally having to face the Essex players.

+

Joe starts driving the next morning, with Mitch arrived from Dubai, via Istanbul and London, riding shotgun. They haven’t lifted the trophy, but they’ve been promoted, and that’s all that they need for now. Music is pumping through Joe’s car. Adam is sitting in the back seat, drumming his fingers against the door handle to the tune, gazing out the window. Jonny is there, too, back from England duty. He’ll head to Sri Lanka in the coming days, for the World Twenty20.  
“What’s the plan?” Joe asks, even though he’s driving north.  
Mitch laughs and looks at him.

“We’re going back to Leeds, aren’t we?” he seeks confirmation.  
“Yeah,” Joe agrees, “or maybe not.”  
“We could keep going,” Jonny suggests.  
“Where would we end up?” Adam wants to know.

“I don’t know, to be perfectly honest with you,” Joe admits, relaxing in his seat. “We could just keep driving north, show Mitch some more of this beautiful country before he leaves.”  
Jonny leans forward.  
“What would you like to see, Mitch?” he queries.

“I’m not sure,” Mitch confesses.  
He lets out a chuckle.  
“I feel like I’ve seen enough of Derbyshire,” Mitch admits.  
“We all have this year, lad,” Adam remarks.

“Well,” Joe interjects with a cheeky grin, “if tour guide duties are in my hands, I might just drive and see where we end up.”  
“Sounds good,” Mitch agrees, trusting Joe’s judgment.  
Keeping on driving is just what Joe does. He rockets north up the motorway, past Cambridge, Peterborough and Nottingham. They bypass Leeds, only stopping once near York. It’s there that they appreciate the amenities and grab some food, before Joe drives them the rest of the way. As the day draws on, Mitch starts to ponder about where they might be heading.

He says nothing, though, because he likes the surprise created by watching the English countryside go by while Joe drives, Adam sleeps in the back seat and Jonny scribbles something down in a notebook. Mitch is amazed that he’s not carsick already, but he sees no need to say anything. They continue well past Durham, the northernmost county he’s travelled to.  
“Thank you, Joey,” he says to his friend, looking at the blonde-haired man who keeps his eyes on the road. “I really appreciate this, and everything that you’ve done for me. I think I needed someone like you.”  
Joe smiles modestly.  
“Don’t worry about it, lad,” he insists. “It’s been a pleasure.”  
Joe keeps driving until they hit the Scottish border. It’s then when they reach their destination, stepping out into the fresh air.


	53. Chapter 53

The Professional Cricketers’ Association host their annual awards ceremony in London, four days after the summer is over. The Yorkshire squad head down on the train. Joe packs a small bag which he brings with him to the station. Within it, he’s thrown in his suit, shirt, shoes and belt for the night.  
“You know, Rooty,” Jonny points out when he approaches him, waiting for Dizzy who’s fetching their tickets, “it is black-tie tonight.”  
Joe bobs his head in confirmation and taps his bag.  
“I know,” he reassures. “My suit’s in here.”  
Jonny laughs, holding up his own suit in a transparent bag long enough for the clothes.  
“Look, make sure I lend you a proper suit bag for next time,” he offers. “If it’s bad, I’ll iron it for you when we get to the hotel.”

“Thanks,” Joe replies.  
He searches for Dizzy.  
“Hopefully we’ll get to London quickly,” Joe comments.  
Dizzy ambles over, tickets in hand.  
“Mitch irons,” Joe mentions.  
“Does he just?” Jonny questions in response.  
“Yes,” Joe confirms with a smile, as he and Jonny fetch their tickets from Dizzy.

+

The awards ceremony draws to a close late that night, with Nick Compton awarded top honours. Joe almost knows, then, that he’ll be selected to replace Strauss in India. He’s happy for the man, given that they opened together during the England Lions series. Joe decides not to dwell on it, even though that’s harder than it sounds.  
“Hello,” he is greeted by another Somerset accent, although he knows it’s not Nick.  
Joe’s blue eyes dart to the left, where Jos is standing, handsome in his suit. His gaze widens a little, not expecting him to be around, especially considering that it has been his own county teammate winning the award for the leading player in the County Championship.

A County Championship that Joe will be playing in next year, given Yorkshire’s promotion.  
“Hi,” Joe replies. “Congratulations.”  
He knows that any individual award is a victory for the whole county, something gained from the evening’s formalities for everybody to enjoy, knowing that their own teammate has been recognised.

Jos smiles modestly. A grin suits his face.  
“Thank you, you’re very kind, Joe, but I didn’t have anything to do with it,” Jos admits. “Nick did very well, though. It is a good day for Somerset.”  
“Indeed,” Joe agrees, and he notices that his response elicit a continuation of Jos’ grin.  
He senses him taking a step forward while clearing his throat quietly.  
“Congratulations are in order for you, I would think,” Jos points out.  
Joe turns his gaze and narrows his eyes a little, not quite sure what he’s referring to.  
“With promotion, and all,” Jos explains. “We might be playing against each other next year.”

“Yes,” Joe agrees, although he’s not sure if it’s a promise he can keep. “We might be.”  
Jos is still smiling, and it strikes Joe that that’s the sort of man he is. He knows that they have met before Finals Day. Joe’s trying to remember when, but he doesn’t give it too much thought.  
“You must be relieved,” Jos presumes.

“Yeah,” Joe agrees, his voice laced with that emotion like it’s a drug.  
He finds himself turning to Jos. They’re standing a little closer together than Joe usually would have chosen. He doesn’t think to move, though, casting his gaze over Jos in front of him, wearing his suit with a black bow-tie.  
“It is definitely a relief,” Joe confirms, blue eyes locked with Jos’.

+

Jos reminds Joe, at some stage during the evening, that he never took him up on the offer of a cider to express his thanks. Joe watches as Jos buys a bottle each for both of them from the bar.   
“Are you sure you’re right?” he queries quietly, leaning in towards Jos, who places one bottle in his hands.  
“Yes, of course,” Jos agrees. “It’s my shout to say thank you for helping me in my hour of need.”  
Joe grins, a little modestly, as they weave their way through the bodies of other cricketers. Finally, he and Jos burst their way out into the fresh air, slipping into the lock. They climb the stairs slowly, then open the door to step out onto the roof terrace which they find.

“Wow,” Jos murmurs at the sight of the beautiful view of London’s sparkling lights. “This is glorious.”  
“Yes,” Joe agrees, standing by his side. “It is.”  
He uncaps his bottle of cider and Jos does the same.  
“Cheers,” Joe wishes, offering the neck of his bottle towards Jos’.

He grins.  
“Cheers,” Jos echoes. “To another summer finished, and hopefully to the winter.”  
“That’s a toast I can support,” Joe agrees.  
He clinks his bottle against Jos’ and they both take a sip.

“What’s for your winter, Jos?” Joe asks.  
“India, hopefully,” Jos replies, looking into Joe’s eyes from a sideways glance. “I hope to see you too.”  
Joe laughs modestly.  
“You’ll be there,” Jos promises. “I can feel it in my waters that you will.”

+

It’s an evening match for Mitch in Colombo, to start the World Twenty20. He’ll shares the new ball with Shane Watson. Mitch is standing at long leg for the first ball of the match, walking in with the bowler whose delivery is short, hooked away recklessly and high into the air. He watches the ball off Porterfield’s bat coming straight towards him. Mitch beams as he comfortably takes the catch. He charges in as his teammates crowd around him in celebration, and somehow the ball is returned to the umpire. Mitch exchanges high-fives with each of them in procession. It’s just the start they are after. Afterwards, the players break away. They don’t really need a drink so soon into the match, although Mitch is grateful for the sip Dave provides.

The rest of the over, as he returns to his fielding position, races by. Stirling is beaten by Watto, then hit on the pads for no run as the ball dribbles away and is fielded by square leg. He inside edges the next ball, to resist any possible leg before wicket shout. Watto bowls short again and the batsman try to scramble though. Mike’s hands are on his head when he can’t execute the run out. Soon enough, Mitch heads in to hand over his cap. He bowls his first ball to Ed Joyce, the Irish veteran. Joyce flicks the ball away for one run, bringing Stirling onto strike. Mitch walks back to the top of his mark. He’s pondering that there are female Joyces who play for Ireland, too. Mitch isn’t sure why that comes to mind, nor whether the women are Ed’s sisters, or Ed’s sister and Ed’s wife, or some other relation. Maybe they’re not related at all, or he’s imagining their existence. Mitch shakes his head a little when he receives the ball. He’s not quite sure why he’s thinking of any of this, anything other than the task at hand.


	54. Chapter 54

Australia’s next match is against the West Indies. Mitch knows that rain is brewing, so he’s surprised when Sammy elects to bat first. Then again, he’s started to notice that Duckworth-Lewis targets are often steeper than expected. The West Indies are a good side, and maybe their captain’s onto a trick which others might have missed without knowing. Mitch and his fellow Australian players huddle by the boundary rope. George reminds them about executing their skillsets before they break away. Mitch turns his head, stretching, and noticing the opening batsmen for the West Indies standing near the race from their dressing room, waiting for the Australians to step onto the field so that they can follow.

There’s every possibility that he will have to bowl to Chris Gayle. The reputation of the man proceeds him, given his record. Mitch has heard tales of his strength, owing to his muscular and bulky physique. It’s not exaggerated, he realises quickly, trying not to stare in awe as he heads towards his fielding position, as directed by George. Mitch is fielding at long leg, again, while Watto takes the first over with the very new ball, to Gayle’s opening partner, Dwayne Smith, who looks diminutive in comparison, even though he is, himself, a stocky, powerful player. He feels the pressure of needing to take early wickets. Mitch breathes out and shakes his wrist.

Hunched over a little, he walks in with the bowler. Watto bowls his customary short ball, which Dwayne Smith smacks away for one run. Pat at deep square leg fields the ball and throws it back in with haste, so that Watto can bowl again. Gayle comes onto strike, and Mitch can feel his heart beating a little faster at the thought of his skill. He pulls his lips into a tight circle with surprise as Watto bowls a good-length ball. Mitch senses that Gayle wasn’t expecting that, either. He leaves it alone outside the off-stump, as if he would have tried to ramp over the non-existent slips a rising delivery. Mitch is hopeful that this means there’s some sort of indecision within the opening batsman’s mind, which could bring about a wicket.

Mitch gasps and jumps on the spot as Watto hits Gayle in the helmet, the ball ricocheting towards and over the boundary rope. Four leg byes are recorded before he can even get into his stride, but then must fetch it. Mitch hurls the ball back to Wadey, who catches the throw above his head and tosses it from glove to glove. He turns and walks back to long leg, and it’s only when he looks up that he notices the ball is heading around the field. It eventually settles in Watto’s hands, so that he can bowl again to Gayle. He tries to bowl on a good length again. Yet, the ball sails too far wide. The umpire flings out his arms and, while Mitch is a little disappointed, he knows that the call is fair.

Hopefully the same standard will be applied across both innings, and he believes that this will be the case. Mitch knows the rhythm with which Watto will bowl, whether to Gayle or Smith, alternating between short and good-length balls. He’ll utilise similar fields for each, to keep the batsmen guessing. Mitch is pulled up by George, though, to field at short fine leg. It’s something that they could pick up on, but he hopes that they won’t. With the wide, the good-length ball is used, so Watto bowls short again to Gayle, who hits the ball away for a single. Mitch runs towards it and slides to cut it off, hurling the ball back into the stumps as if he’s trying to pull off a run-out, even though he knows that both batsmen will be safely home. Wadey fetches the ball and throws it down the pitch to Watto.

+

Mitch is given the responsibility of bowling the very last over of the innings. He has already taken one wicket for twenty-one runs off three overs thus far. Mitch feels like he’s bowling economically, in light of the hefty total the West Indies’ batsmen are amassing. Still, as he wipes his forehead with the back of his wrist at the top of his mark, the pressure creeps in, knowing that he is the difference. It’s an all-or-nothing game, is cricket. Mitch wouldn’t usually consider the verb ‘is’ as needing to occur twice in a sentence like that. He knows that Joe’s English manner of speaking has been rubbing off on him, as has his tendency for his mind to drift away during a match. To regain his focus, Mitch tosses the ball up in front of his face and catches it in one paw, his left bowling hand.

He steadies his breathing, then runs in to bowl, to Darren Sammy on two not out. It’s a length ball like Mitch intended and his features widen when he notices the edge. He pulls up abruptly, though, when it flies away from the fielders. The ball runs away for four much-needed runs for the West Indies, the last thing that Mitch needs to start his last over. Actually, it’s the second-last thing that he needs, and the last thing is served up on the second ball. The Sri Lankan crowd roars like they’re from St Lucia. Mitch mutters to himself as he heads back to the top of his mark, then accepts the ball in one hand from the fielder at long-on. His next ball is on the money, speared in at Sammy, who misses the ball.

It cannons into his pad as he calls Ramdin through with urgency. Mitch feels like he cannot move. He’s not in any pain other than the usual ache of a fast bowler, as figures scramble around the field, not least Sammy and Ramdin between the wickets. It’s Wadey who eventually fields the ball somewhere near square leg. He falls over and he tries to throw it in, and two leg byes are secured for the West Indies. Twelve have been conceded from the over thus far. Only ten of those, though, are accounted to Mitch’s bowling figures. He still would rather that that be can fewer, but he can’t always get what he wants, he’s coming to learn. Mitch grimaces when he bowls Sammy a full toss. It’s hit high into the evening sky and he finds himself screaming for somebody to catch the ball. In the end, Davey settles underneath it and secures it in his mitts. He charges in towards Mitch, who presents dual fist-pumps to the air. The team rush in, and he spots no hesitancy on George’s face. Given how far behind on their overs they are, maybe they should be more careful.

+

After the victory, Mitch stands at the edge of the cover, staring out into the dark and torrential rain. He places his jumper over his head. Mitch runs, drops thudding down against the fabric keeping at least some of him dry.  
“Where are you going?” He turns around in response to a vaguely familiar voice.  
Chris Gayle emerges from the shadows, standing on the edge of the rain. He appears to Mitch almost like a vision. Gayle is slightly illuminated by a distant light, which makes his identity known.  
“To catch a coach,” Mitch explains.  
It’s not that he doesn’t want to talk with such a legend of the game, but rather than he prefers not to have to stand in the pouring rain while he does it.

Mitch notices that Gayle’s feet are getting wet, but the rest of him is dry.  
“A bus sort of coach?” he checks.  
“Yeah,” Mitch confirms.  
“Does your human coach know?” Gayle questions.  
“Yes,” Mitch confirms. “I’m going to Galle. I’m visiting my girlfriend. Alyssa plays for Australia too.”


	55. Chapter 55

Mitch loves watching Alyssa play. There’s something inherently pure in it, the joy that the women possess. Mitch knows that they crave the ability for the sport itself to wear them down, rather than everything else because it can’t, but he adores the joy he witnesses in the woman he loves when she plays. Australia are playing Pakistan in Galle. It’s yet another Sri Lankan ground haunted by rain throughout the tournament. Dark clouds are looming overhead as eleven fielders and two batters head out onto the field. Alyssa will be opening the batting, with Meg Lanning. She’s barely twenty and the best they’ve ever seen, the youngest – male or female – to score an international century for Australia, at barely eighteen years of age.

Meg’s Ricky Ponting, but with a blonde ponytail. Mitch hunches over.  
“Come on,” he murmurs. “You’ll do well.”  
Mitch knows it.  
“Come on,” he echoes.

+

Mitch notices something serene about the Indian team before the match. They don’t train beforehand, which he starts to think is rather wise, given that he’s already sweating by the time he returns to the dressing room. George emerges for the toss, in the centre of the field alongside MS Dhoni, who wins and elects to bat first. Mitch reaches for his bowling boots and sits down on his seat. He makes sure that his orthotics and spikes are properly fitted, before removing his training shoes and replacing them with his boots. Mitch will wear the same socks and change them later in the night. He and Pat are the only two out-and-out quicks in the side.

Mitch notices his younger teammate preparing in the same fashion, on the other side of the dressing room. It’s so good to have Pat back on the park, given his frequent injuries. Mitch can barely believe, though, that he’s only nineteen years old. Even for himself at twenty-two, nineteen feels like a very long time ago and a much younger age. Once Mitch has fitted himself with his bowling boots, he rises to his feet. He pads across the dressing room, glancing out through the windows and onto the field. Pat comes across behind him. He lingers by Mitch’s shoulder and gazes up towards the sky, with some clouds gathering in up above them.  
“I’m surprised that they batted first,” Pat admits, “given that teams usually bowl first when there’s rain around, you know.”  
“Well,” Mitch replies, “I don’t know if that’s true, really. They always seem to up the run rate required with the Duckworth Lewis.”  
“That could be true,” Pat agrees.  
They fall silent again, watching the empty field in an almost trance-like state. Soon enough, George calls them out into the field. One by one, they head down the stairs.

+

 

Australia manage to win comfortably, by nine wickets. It’s the night match in Colombo, so nobody has to clear out of their dressing rooms too quickly. Mitch takes the liberty of dawdling out of his dressing room. Alyssa is playing the next day in Galle. Mitch glances across in the direction of the Indian dressing room, through the Colombo heat. Virat emerges, expression of disappointment on his face. His hands are slotted onto his hips as he gazes wistfully around at the field, now concealed by large covers in case rain is to come. It’s almost monsoon season in Sri Lanka, not necessarily the ideal time for cricket. Mitch takes a few steps closer to the railing of the balcony outside the dressing room.

He studies Virat, a little voyeuristically, not that he wishes any failure upon the star twenty-three-year-old. Except, of course, when playing against him. That’s another matter, though. Virat pans his eyes around the ground, chin raised a little. Finally, he spots Mitch, whose eyes widen. He doesn’t move, because there’s no point leaving when he’s been seen. Virat steps closer to his own railing, spikes clanging against the surface underneath his feet. Mitch raises his shoulders.  
“Hello,” Virat greets. “Mitchell Starc, yes?”  
“Yes,” Mitch replies.

Virat nods his head quickly.  
“Thought so, just checking,” he reassures.  
“I know that you’re Virat Kohli,” Mitch points out.   
Everyone knows about Virat Kohli, the Ponting from Delhi of the next generation.

A hint of a smile creeps onto his lips, bobbing his head.  
“Of course you’d remember me,” Virat insists. “I hit you for four.”  
He laughs. Mitch scoffs.  
“Only once,” he murmurs.

Virat beams, stepping over to the railing. He slips his hands from his hips and curls his fingers around metal.  
“No worries, Mitchell,” he says. “I’m only teasing you. I mean, you didn’t get me out, but you had the last laugh. You won, that’s the main thing.”  
“Yeah,” Mitch confirms. “Sorry about that.”  
Virat scoffs, like it’s the silliest thing in the world for him to have said.  
“Never be sorry about that,” he insists. “If you’re not out there to fight your hardest, what are you out there for?”

Mitch doesn’t have the answer, but he senses that the question might have been rhetorical. He nods his head slowly, and finds himself ambling over to the railing.   
“I guess you’re right,” Mitch agrees.  
Virat emits a sigh, casting his gaze out over the Colombo ground.  
“I hope I’m right,” he insists. “If I’m not, then I don’t know what I’m doing.”  
Virat looks up all of a sudden to catch Mitch’s eye.  
“That’s why I make sure,” he explains.  
Mitch nods his head once.

“Well,” he replies, “you seem to be doing everything right so far.”  
“Really?” Virat challenges. “We lost the match. We’re unlikely to qualify for the semi-finals.”  
He shakes his head with despair.  
“We have the best domestic Twenty20 competition in the world and we can’t even win a match at the World Cup.” It sounds to Mitch like Virat can’t make sense of it.

He can’t make sense of it, either, but he’s not about to question it.  
“You haven’t played IPL, have you, Mitch?” Virat checks.  
Mitch shakes his head, prompting a nod from Virat.  
“I didn’t think so,” he admits, “because I don’t remember you.”

Virat flicks his eyes out over the ground. Then, he snaps his attention back to Mitch.  
“Would you like to?” Virat proposes.  
“Oh, yeah, of course, why not?” Mitch replies with a question of his own. “I mean, the money going around, that would set you up for life back home for six weeks of bowling four overs.”

“That’s the last reason why I’d tell you to do it,” Virat insists. “It’s because, in international cricket, the pinnacle that it is, we’re really just trying to beat each other for our own ends, really. In IPL, we come together, we bring in the young kids and we show them the best in the world.”  
His eyes are gleaming with thoughtful pride, more than just the floodlights which are still switched on.  
“You know, I’m a Delhi boy, but I play for Bangalore,” Virat notes. “They are the team that ended up with me.”


	56. Chapter 56

When Australia plays South Africa, George elects to field first. He gives Doey the first over. There’s some sense of change in the afternoon air. Mitch feels tense in the field, like something could go wrong. They’ve won every match so far, but South Africa have a great side, one that could threaten Australia. Doey bowls the third ball of the match to Richard Levi, who has been playing for Somerset. He rocks back and the ball hits the stumps, dislodging the bails which fall to the pitch.  
“Onya, Doey,” Mitch calls out.  
He runs in.

“Onya!” Mitch echoes.  
Beaming, he grabs the Tasmanian spin bowler. Mitch embraces him, vigorously ruffling his hair. The team crowd around in a huddle of jubilation while Kallis walks onto the field, serenely. In response, the Australians disperse, allowing Kallis to take his guard, aided by the umpire. Mitch returns to his fielding position at deep fine leg, keeping his eyes on George, just in case the captain wants to move him. He doesn’t, though, so he stays in place, wiping his sweaty hands on his trousers. Mitch walks in with Doey, who bowls to Kallis who drives the ball along the ground. Pat scurries forwards from long-off to intercept the ball, hurling it back into the pitch.

The South Africans hurry through for one run, no damage done.   
“Great throw, Patty,” Mitch praises, yelling across the field and clapping his hands loudly.  
In the distance, Pat flashes a thumbs-up to thank Mitch for his support. Mitch smiles. He likes his younger teammate. Mitch knows that Pat’s had a tough run with injuries. He can relate. Mitch only wants the best for the younger man, who’s really not that different from himself. They’re both one of five children, from Sydney’s western suburbs. Pat seems so young, fresh and green at nineteen. Perhaps that’s something that Mitch admires about him, considering everything he’s got ahead of him.

If Pat’s body holds up, of course, which is an ‘if’, rather than a ‘when’. Mitch breathes out, a little shakily, and wipes his hands again. Doey bowls to Hashim Amla, facing his first ball for the match. He flicks the ball towards deep square leg. Mitch sprints around to intercept the ball, then throws it back in to Wadey, who catches the ball above his head.  
“Fielding, Mitch,” Pat compliments, on the top of his voice.  
Mitch makes eye contact with Pat, clapping his hands above his head to thank him. He jogs backwards, back to his fielding position.  
“Go where that one ended up, Starcy,” George advises.

He’s waving his arms around. Mitch sidesteps so that he’s fielding at deep square leg. George raises his palm to stop him, then gives a thumbs-up. Mitch mimics the gesture. The Colombo crowd is getting louder, with Kallis back on strike. They need to make sure that they understand each other, when moving around the field. Doey bowls back of a length and punches the ball into the covers, where Davey is prowling and sprawls himself to fetch the ball and toss it back to Doey. He catches the ball, then claps above his head to praise the leader. Wadey does the same, with his large wicketkeeping gloves, looming close to the stumps, perhaps to intimidate the batsman.

In fact, Mitch is sure. That’s Wadey’s way, to try to add more than what any bowler can offer. As the end of the over has arrived, Mitch removes his cap. Maxi runs towards him to accept it, to hand it over to the umpire, so that Mitch can head straight to the top of his mark. He’s already painted the grass. There’s a blue line where Mitch will run in from, measured out with precision prior to the match beginning. They’ve been playing many matches in Colombo, and Mitch has often taken the second over. They haven’t bowled Watto yet, something a little different. Mitch can imagine commentators chattering on about that, critiquing George, perhaps, because they seem to have nothing more productive to talk about.

He catches the ball which Davey throws towards him, having made its way around the field. Mitch carefully holds the white ball in his fingers, which are positioned down the seam. He studies it, then shakes his wrist before running in to bowl to Amla, who’s facing up. The ball is on a good length just outside the off stump. Amla leaves the ball, which is surprising for a Twenty20 match. Wadey catches it. He throws it around the field until it settles back in Mitch’s hands. It’s never been his responsibility to hurry the batsman through bowling fast overs, only fast balls. Mitch finds that they are much more effective, anyway.

+

When leaving the ground, Mitch notices AB in the empty stands, embracing a smiling brunette woman. Judging by the ring on her finger, he suspects that she’s the fiancée of the wicketkeeper. He glances up all of a sudden, and Mitch halts. He feels himself noticed. AB smiles towards him and waves.  
“Mitchell!” he greets.  
AB holds hands with his fiancée and they amble over. Mitch wasn’t intending to chat, but he’s happy to if the South African captain is so inclined.  
“Well bowled, this evening,” AB praised.

“Thank you,” Mitch replies. “I really appreciate hearing that, especially from you.”  
“You’re most welcome, it’s true,” AB affirms.  
He looks at his fiancée, dropping his hand from hers and slipping his arm around her shoulders instead.  
“Sorry, I have been rude not to introduce you,” AB apologises. “Mitchell, this is my fiancée, Danielle. Dani, meet Mitchell Starc, the Australian fast bowler.”  
“Nice to meet you, Danielle,” Mitch greets.  
Danielle responds with the same sentiments.

“You’re staying around, aren’t you?” AB asks Mitch. “Your next game is here again in a couple of days, isn’t it?”  
“Yes, mate,” he confirms. “We’re playing Pakistan in two or three days, I think.”  
Mitch laughs, a little self-effacingly.  
“All the matches are starting to blur together for me,” he admits.  
“Me too,” AB agrees, allowing Mitch to feel a little relieved, that such a legend of the game senses something of the same overwhelm.  
He squeezes Danielle’s shoulder and flashes a grin.

“That’s why it makes it so much easier to have loved ones around,” AB notes.  
He narrows his eyes a little in thought.  
“Do you have any family around, Mitchell?” AB wants to know.  
“Yeah, of sorts,” Mitch agrees. “My girlfriend, Alyssa, she’s in the Australian team, too. I’m visiting her whenever I can. I agree, it’s great to spend time together.”

He’s blushing. Mitch hears footsteps behind him and briefly flicks his eyes over his shoulder, to check who is approaching. Pat is standing a few metres away.  
“I’ll let you go,” AB permits. “I might see you in Brisbane.”  
“Brisbane?” Mitch queries.  
It takes him a split-second to realise.  
“Ah, yes, Brisbane,” Mitch remembers. “The First Test. We’ll have to see.”  
AB looks a little bemused.  
“See you,” he farewells, before Mitch repeats that and wanders away with a wave, to join Pat.

He places his hand on Mitch’s shoulder, pulling in close to speak privately.  
“Mate,” Pat gushes, “I’m sorry for interrupting. That’s great that you had AB’s ear.”  
“He was just chatting,” Mitch points out, “and introducing me to his fiancée.”  
“Better than nothing,” Pat reminds. “He’s a great player.”  
“He is,” Mitch confirms.  
Pat’s hands slip from his torso, as they walk back to the team bus, where their coffins have already been packed. They climb the stairs, the last two on the bus back to the hotel, where they can put their feet up, rest and watch the night match between India and Pakistan on their rooms’ televisions.


	57. Chapter 57

Mitch arrives back at the Colombo ground, two days later in fact. His teammates settle back into a dressing room that’s becoming familiar. Mitch knows that, somehow, if they lose the match badly enough, they could still miss out on the semi-finals. He’s not sure how that works, given that they haven’t lost a match yet, whereas all of their opponents thus far obviously have. George is wandering around the dressing room with his hands resting on his hips, already dressed in his playing kit, given that he’ll be expected to head out onto the field for the toss. Mitch feels confident around his captain, given the kindness he showed him when he first arrived with the one-day squad.

“What’s the plan, skip?” he wants to know, ambling over.  
“I reckon,” George begins.  
He speaks slowly, perhaps because he’s still thinking.  
“I reckon we’ll bowl first if we get the chance,” George proposes.  
He looks to the side at Mitch.  
“What do you reckon about that?” George wants to know.  
“I’d be happy with that,” Mitch confirms.

+

Mitch heads out to bat with one over remaining in the match against Pakistan, with Mike at the other end. He immediately notices the veteran’s amazing energy, despite their dire position in the match. Australia need forty off the final over. Mitch knows that it’s virtually impossible to achieve victory.  
“Welcome, Starcy,” Mike greets.  
He speaks with conviction and determination. Mike has always been one to persevere.   
“Make sure that you’re backing up,” he advises, “and let’s make sure that we get the two we need for the semis.”

Mitch nods.  
“If I think that I can hit it, I will,” Mike vows.  
Mitch thinks that that’s a solid strategy.  
“OK,” he agrees. “Good luck, mate.”  
“Thanks, Starcy,” Mike replies.  
They pat each other on the shoulder, briefly, before moving to their opposite ends. Mitch watches while Mike faces up, bat dragging along the pitch behind him, while Umar Gul bowls.


	58. Chapter 58

When Mitch returns to the team hotel after the loss against Pakistan, he knows that Alyssa will be there. She’s arrived from Galle with the rest of her teammates, in preparation for their semi-final. The Australian women are playing in the second semi-final. It will be against the West Indies on October 5, in the afternoon before the second men’s semi-final. Mitch knows that he has made it, too. Having reached 112, or whatever score they needed to overcome South Africa, who they defeated comfortably, Australia has qualified. Mitch pads down the hallway and unlocks his door, slipping into his room between George’s and Pat’s. It’s quiet and dark, but he doesn’t turn on the light, because it’s too hot even for that.

Mitch does, however, flick on the fan and walk over to the bed. He lowers himself down onto it, spreading out his long limbs like a starfish, or a snow angel. Mitch stares up at the swirling fan above him. He keeps his attention on it until its movement makes him feel a little queasy, then his head lolls to the side and he glances towards the slither of window, a glimpse of Sri Lanka beyond. India will be playing South Africa that night. Mitch figures that he can watch that match on television, but for the meantime, he has something else to do.

+

Mitch’s mind is cast back to Finals Day. It’s the day of the World Twenty20 semi-final and the crowds are building in Colombo. Mitch waits on the balcony outside the dressing room while the toss is conducted, broadcasting on the screen and boomed around the ground through microphones. He doesn’t need to rely on George’s signal to know that their opposition team, the West Indies, is batting first through their own choice. Mitch steps back through the doorway, into the cool dressing room. He needs to prepare himself to bowl. Mitch isn’t sure which over he will take, exactly, likely the second which he has usually bowled. Tactics change so often in Twenty20 cricket, but he’s confident that George will tell them what’s happening once he returns.

Mitch pads over to his familiar locker area, where his cricket coffin is located, with his bowling boots and other clothes and equipment inside, underneath the unzipped yet closed top flap. If they win today, they’ll be back, in the same dressing rooms, in the same rhythm as every other match. Of course it would be different, though. It’s already different, given that they’re playing a final. Their task is simple – win or bust. Still, that makes the task deceptively challenging, that Mitch knows that they have a golden opportunity right in front of them, and they cannot let it slip.


	59. Chapter 59

Alyssa smells a little of beer by the time that she returns to the hotel room where Mitch is waiting. It’s the early hours of the morning, a time confirmed by the glowing digits of the alarm clock by the bed, which he’s definitely not setting for the next day. They have one glorious day in Sri Lanka together, awaiting them. Mitch didn’t realise that he has fallen asleep, which he has promised that he wouldn’t, until he hears the door creak when it opens. Soon enough, Alyssa’s nestled beside him, kissing him. Mitch smiles at her, dreamily. He’s been awakened, and she’s been sobered, by touch. The curtains are only a little ajar.

 

Nobody could see in, thankfully, although they are afforded a glimpse of the city beyond. The floodlights have been switched off at the ground. The final is over, and the tournament has been won by the Australians – Alyssa’s Australians. They halt. Outside, Mitch and Alyssa can hear raucous laughter, and the sounds of celebrating bodies thumping into the hotel walls. She raises her eyes and a smile blooms on her lips.

“Don’t worry,” Alyssa assures, when she turns her eyes back to Mitch.

Her hand is creeping up his bare chest, before pressing him against the pillow.

 

+

 

Mitch’s dark eyes deviate between his watch and the hotel room clock, which read slightly different times. He could change his watch, but he’s not going to. They’ll be out of this hotel soon enough, like all of those before it, anyway. The Champions League is supposed to be like international cricket, but with none of the importance. Well, the money’s a factor, undeniably, but Mitch tries to push that out of his mind. Money muddies the waters, even though he feels a little guilty for holding that position. In the same breath, he would believe that Alyssa and her teammates deserve greater financial reward. Mitch knows, though, that the situations aren’t comparable.

 

He shudders, sitting perched on the edge of his well-made hotel bed, then slowly leans back and places his head on the pillow, swinging the rest of his frame around so that he is lying down and gazing up at the ceiling, the back of his wrist resting lightly against his forehead. Mitch checks again. He knows that it’s not long until Joe’s flight lands. Mitch is oddly fascinated by itineraries. When he was little, he thought that, if he wasn’t a cricketer, he’d be a travel agent. Mitch sighs, not aware if anyone else knows that about him, given that he never doubted becoming a professional cricketer (or golfer), except for in quiet, guilty moments. Perhaps they were moments like these, quiet and alone.

 

Mitch checks the time yet again, even though it seems to be barely changing, except for in between the mismatched clock faces. A little exasperated, he removes his watch and places it atop the bedside chest of drawers. Its band has been scratching Mitch’s wrist, irritating the hair follicles, even though he suspects that it would have been alleviated if he just loosened it. Abandoning it, he thinks back over the last few days that have passed. Mitch suppresses a yawn, feeling a little sleepy. He flew in to Johannesburg that morning, and spent the day lounging around at the hotel. Mitch had arrived from Abu Dhabi, where he had stopped briefly after the flight from Sydney. It has been magical, to return home to Sydney with Alyssa. Mitch is missing her already, but he knows that they both have cricket to play. He just wishes, though, that it didn’t have to be on opposite sides of the world, with Mitch in Johannesburg and Alyssa in Sydney.

 

+

 

Joe, batting at three behind Gale and Jacquesy, comes into bat in the second over. Yorkshire have made a brisk start to their run chase – fifteen off eleven including the fall of the wicket. He knows that time is off the essence, given the playing conditions of the Twenty20 format, so he keeps his head down while he’s walking off the field, holding his blade and grip in his gloves. If his captain wants to speak with him, Joe is confident that he’ll speak up, so he’s not concerned. Nor is he worried about the game, which surprises him. Joe knows that they’re still qualifying. It’s still entirely possible that they’ll go back home without even having played a real match in the tournament.

 

Joe halts, though, when Gale approaches, halting on his way off the field following his dismissal.

“Go for it,” he insists, “but be careful, still. We need to keep wickets in hand.”

Joe suppresses his urge to chuckle, given the paradoxical nature of his captain’s comments.

“Alright,” he agrees, then keeps walking towards the wicket, to begin his innings.

Joe looks up and down the pitch. These totals are tricky, seven-and-a-half runs an over, a rate which they’re already achieving. Joe senses that this is Yorkshire’s match to lose, and their tournament to bow out of early. He’ll be on strike, given that Gale was stumped. Joe walks to the striker’s end as Jacquesy approaches him. They glove-punch.

“Let’s just keep up with the rate,” Jacquesy advises, keeping eye contact before briefly flicking his eyes towards the big screen. “That’s all we have to do.”

“Fair enough,” Joe answers. “Thanks, Jacquesy.”


	60. Chapter 60

There’s something of a run for a midnight snack about the Champions League, like it’s naughty and pointless but still oh so much fun. Joe’s with his Yorkshire teammates, off on tour far away from English shores, and it’s the closest he’s felt to a school camp in a long time, despite the relentless travel of the county season. Yorkshire face their second match of this school camp meets midnight snack run the day after their first. Joe thinks it’s a little odd, that it seems strange to play a Twenty20 match one day after the other, when they play for much longer day after day in the County Championship. He thinks that Yorkshire will be grateful for the chance, though.

Joe feels that momentum will carry them forward, hopefully into the tournament. Almost all is going to plan when he walks out to bat, again albeit a little earlier than they would have liked. Yorkshire are chasing a smaller target, although not by much, than the day before and there’s a spring in Joe’s step, that he’s confident that they’ll get the task complete and qualify. This time, it’s Andrew who he joins at the wicket.  
“Just watch out for Rampaul with the new ball,” he warns, standing close.  
Joe doesn’t mind, because he knows that Andrew doesn’t want the team from Trinidad and Tobago to hear their tactics.

+

“Mitch,” Pat requests, “would it be alright if I could please come out with you tonight?”  
He has been looking forward to the time just with Joe once again. Yet, Pat’s a good young kid and Mitch, as the older bowler, doesn’t want to say no.  
“Of course, Patty,” he agrees.  
Pat beams.  
“Thank you,” he gushes.  
Mitch casually shrugs his shoulders and takes a step, although he remains on the spot. They stay silent for a moment, and Mitch senses that Pat’s waiting for him to speak first.

“I’m going to see Joe Root,” he eventually divulges, “from Yorkshire.”  
“Oh, yeah,” Pat recalls. “You played there this year, didn’t you?”  
“Yeah,” Mitch confirms. “I did.”  
He grins, remembering the drama of his arrival in Yorkshire.  
“After I sorted out being deported first,” Mitch mentions.  
Pat raised his eyebrows. Mitch swats his hand to indicate that there’s no problem.

+

“Joey!” Mitch calls out in greeting.  
He’s euphoric to be meeting up with his blonde friend from Yorkshire in person again, on neutral territory. Mitch has never taken drugs, beyond the cocktail of painkillers which any fast bowler needs to get by, but the buzz he heels when he enters the Johannesburg bar, with Pat trailing after him like a lost puppy, albeit a cute one who he’s willing to have shadow him around, is enough to tell him that he’ll never need to, when the presence of friends is enough.

Joe’s already there, following his match, and spins around on the bar stool to greet them with a grin. He stands up and walks over. Mitch and Joe briefly embrace, then they both turn their eyes to Pat.  
“Joe, this is Pat Cummins,” he introduces. “He’s my teammate from New South Wales, the Sixers, here.”  
Smiling, Joe extends his hand for Pat to shake.  
“Lovely to meet you, Pat,” he greets him.  
“Yeah, nice to meet you too, Joe,” Pat replies.  
They all look at each other.

It’s a little awkward, just because they’re not quite sure what to do first, given that there are three of them.  
“Well, Joey,” Mitch speaks up.  
He thinks nothing of using the nickname in front of Pat, who doesn’t seem to react to its familiarity. Mitch takes a step towards Joe. He rests a hand on his shoulder.  
“Considering that you’re just stopping over, I reckon that you shouldn’t have to pay for your first drink tonight,” Mitch offers. “My shout, then.”  
Joe beams, gratefully.

Pat raises one hand.  
“Does that include me, too?” he wants to know.  
“Alright,” Mitch agrees, grinning at Pat to make him feel right at home.  
Joe scoffs, but he’s still smiling.  
“Are you even legal, Pat?” Joe quips.  
“Are you?” Pat retorts.  
Mitch pretends to wince, although he’s chuckling along with his friends.


	61. Chapter 61

Mitch glances down at his torso while he walks back to the top of his mark, just for something to occupy his mind given the length of his run-up, to generate pace. His skin is concealed by magenta polyester. Mitch always like to keep his shirt tucked in. He’s not entirely sure why, but it makes him feel comfortable. Mitch is bowling for the Sydney Sixers, in their first match for the 2012 Champions League at the New Wanderers Stadium in Johannesburg, against the might of the Chennai Super Kings. It’s the second over of the second innings, after the men in magenta have posted a challenging total. Mitch is feeling confident, maybe for no reason in particular, that they will be able to pull off a victory with the ball.

He bowls to Murali Vijay, full and straight. The batsman rocks his feet as he frantically tries to jam down on the ball. Beaming, Mitch lets out a scream as the stumps go flying, raising one pumping fist to the air. He’s jubilant, having achieved the first wicket for the Sydney Sixers. Mitch’s teammates crowd around him, exchanging hi-fives. Head down, Murali Vijay leaves the ground, to be replaced at the crease by the local boy, Faf du Plessis. That’s a strange concept which Mitch acknowledges, but doesn’t spend too much time thinking about. He’s too filled with adrenaline from taking the wicket, which should help him with the over he needs to complete.

The umpire flicks the ball back to Mitch and he catches it easily, before walking back to the end of his mark. He’s waving his arms around to assist Hadds in moving the field. Mitch achieves more late swing with the next delivery. Faf successfully jams down on it. He has a strange name, Mitch reckons, one that he’s never heard before Sri Lanka. Du Plessis played for South Africa at the World Twenty20. Still, he’s a fresh and young player, like Mitch himself. He bowls again and Faf pushes the ball down the wicket, to be fielded by Mitch. It keeps the pace of the Twenty20 match going, if he can take the ball back straight away. Mitch shines it against the side of his pants. Soon enough, though, he thinks better of it, given that the fabric is a much darker shade than the leather. The ball is bound to get dirty at some stage, but hopefully not quite yet, because there’s still the vast majority of the innings to get through.


	62. Chapter 62

It’s the night before the match. Mitch and Joe are staying in the same Cape Town hotel, Table Mountain looming over all that they do. In light of that, Joe offers his room, so that they can play cards and unwind before what’s ahead. Mitch turns up a little early, with something to say.  
“Nobody knows that I’m here,” he admits, once Joe has closed the door.  
He shrugs his shoulders and leads Mitch into the room.  
“That’s alright,” Joe permits. “Jonny’s headed out with Adam to grab a bite to eat.”  
He’s almost a little too casual for Mitch, making him think he’s alone.  
“Joey,” he finally speaks up, still standing near the door.

He turns around, to face Mitch front-on.  
“Tomorrow,” he reminds, “we’re playing against each other.”  
Mitch studies Joe’s expression, as his smile falters a little.  
“Yeah,” he confirms. “That’s true. Look, I don’t mind.”

Joe sighs.  
“It’s just a game,” he insists.  
Mitch smiles as if he’s never thought anything else. It’s gnawing away at him, his discomfort, but maybe it’s unfounded.  
“It’s just that,” Mitch continues, against his better judgment, “I know things about you.”  
Joe shakes a little when he shrugs his shoulder again, like he’s nervous.  
“Yeah,” he agrees, “and I know things about you. It’s an unfortunate one-off, but we play against people we like all the time.”

That’s something that Mitch hasn’t acknowledged. The Sheffield Shield competition isn’t always one where friends are made in a hurry. Mitch doesn’t know how many Queenslanders, for instance, he’s found himself liking.  
“You’re so smart, Joey,” he praises, still a little anxious. “Thank you for being such a smart bloke.”  
Joe blushes a little with modesty, nibbling on his bottom lip.

+

Mitch is tense when Joe comes out to bat. He watches him without saying anything, and notices just how much feels familiar. Joe wears the same grin which he always does. He takes guard, then faces one ball from Joshy before Hadds throws Mitch back the ball. He sees quickly that Joe is watching him, too. Mitch throws his head back in laughter when Joe mocks playing a reverse sweep. It’s easy, like they’re training together.   
“In your dreams, Joey,” Mitch quips.  
Joe salutes him back, which he thinks is odd.

Still, everything’s odd about this, so Mitch doesn’t mind at all. The thing he finds strangest is the ease with which he’s playing against Joe, Yorkshire against the Sydney Sixers. It’s not exactly a clash of traditional rivals, but nothing about this game – or this tournament – is normal. Mitch hopes, though, that he and Joe are starting new rituals. With any luck, they’ll be playing against each other much more often. That’s how international cricket will work, something which Mitch has tasted, but Joe has not. It’s coming, and it’s not too far away. Mitch commences his over to a man he knows well, Jacquesy. He’s helping him to settle in, strangely enough.

Mitch bowls a length ball, which Jacquesy pushes to mid-on. Walking back to his mark, he chuckles. Joe is staring at Mitch. It would be a little unsettling, if not for the grin on his lips.  
“Do I need to get involved with you two gentleman?” the umpire queries.  
“Not at all,” Mitch insists. 

“We go way back,” Joe adds. “All the way back to May.”  
He starts to swagger out of his crease.  
“Mitchell here, he’s a Yorkshireman,” Joe notes, speaking in his best impression of a gaudy English accent.  
It’s a strange thing, trying to take off yourself. In light of that, Joe doesn’t do too badly. The umpire simply chuckles and moves back into position. Mitch prepares to bowl. He pitches the ball short and Jacquesy swipes at it, catching the top edge. It sails through the air as Joe jogs through.  
“Fast fibres,” he mumbles to himself.  
Mitch wanders down the pitch, a little dazed, before the catch is taken. He runs in, taken in by the ecstasy of the moment, which he hasn’t quite seen coming.

+

After the match, Mitch seeks out Joe with a little trepidation, almost embarrassed by the thrashing which the Sydney Sixers have inflicted upon Yorkshire, one that he didn’t see coming. It’s almost an hour after the final ball and the televisions are still showing highlights, which is a subjective term, of the 2011 Test at the same ground. After all, it had been expected that the match would only just be finishing. The sun is beginning to sink down behind Table Mountain, which is what Joe is staring towards.  
“Hey,” Mitch speaks up in greeting, startling the blonde Yorkshireman a little.  
He glances over his shoulder, eyes narrow.

“Sorry,” Mitch apologises.  
“That’s alright,” Joe permits, shifting where he’s resting his elbows.  
He runs one hand through his hair, still a little flattened from having been underneath his cap.  
“I just didn’t hear you coming,” Joe admits, “but that was a good game.”


	63. Chapter 63

After the match, some of the younger Sixers boys head out, even though their next match is going two days away. Thankfully, they don’t have to travel in the meantime, which gives them a good excuse. Mitch texts Joe the location of the bar, if he wants to join them, although he doesn’t blame him if he doesn’t. He wanders away from the booth the boys have taken over. Mitch is helping Pat to carry his round back from the bar. When he hears a Yorkshire accent, his eyes immediately dart over his shoulder. Yet, it’s not Joe standing there, but a slim and brunette woman. Mitch doesn’t stare, except at Pat. His eyes are wide, captivated by this young woman who stops talking, long enough to notice Pat.

“Good luck, buddy,” Mitch remarks, with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, although he knows that, of all the single boys in the team, Pat’s in with the best chance.  
He stays on the spot, only because Pat isn’t moving in a hurry. The young woman makes her way towards them.  
“Hello,” she purrs, only with eyes for Pat. “What’s your name?”  
“Patrick,” he answers, and Mitch suppresses his urge to chuckle.

+

Later that night, once most of the boys have left for the hotel, Mitch and Joe remain in the booth with one last drink. While they wouldn’t admit to it, they’re watching Pat. He’s perched atop a bar stool, with the glamorous woman opposite. Mitch scoffs, then looks back at Joe and takes a sip from his drink – his last for the night, he’s promised himself.  
“She’s one of your people,” he notes.  
“What, a Yorkshire lass?” Joe questions.  
He speaks in a parody of his own accent which causes Mitch to laugh.  
“That’s alright,” Mitch confirms.

“Well, worth a try,” Joe decides. “If things work out, we’d welcome Pat.”  
Mitch laughs and downs the rest of his drink.  
“In your dreams,” he laughs.  
Mitch notices that Joe is looking at his empty glass.

“Your last, I guess,” he presumes.  
“Yeah,” Mitch confirms. “Got to play again in another forty-eight hours.”  
“You and me both,” Joe affirms, even though they’ll be playing different teams.  
“It was fine in the end, wasn’t it?” Mitch notes. “Playing each other.”  
“Yes,” Joe agrees with a grin. “It was good fun.”  
“It was.” Mitch and Joe clink their glasses together.

+

Mitch is playing for the Sydney Sixers in the afternoon, knowing that Joe is playing later that night for Yorkshire, as looming clouds rumble in over South Africa, rimmed with sunshine. He’s not confident that they’ll get both matches in, but that’s a worry for another time. Mitch shines the white ball against his groin. While panning his eyes around the field which Hadds is setting for him, tinkering it from Pat’s first over, Mitch tosses the ball into the air. He catches it in one paw without even having to look. Finally, Mitch and Hadds share a nod, which allows him to prepare himself to bowl his first delivery for the match.

He steadies himself at the top of his run, then charges in, white ball gripped by his left hand. Mitch bowls a full ball to start off with, just as has been the plan. A smile creeps onto his lips. Mitch instantly notices the swing which he produces, as the batsman for the Lions jams the ball away. For no run, he works the ball to square leg. The fielder quickly tosses the ball back in, via Hadds’ gloves. There’s an intensity about the Sixers’ outfit which Mitch notices immediately. They know that time is of the essence. If the rain does come in, they’ll want to have been rushing through their overs, to make a match more likely. That doesn’t really help Joe, though, but that’s not their responsibility.

The ball is quickly returned to Mitch and he plucks it from the sticky air with one hand. He reaches the top of his mark and turns. The ball thuds into the pads. Hadds stands up straighter with one arm raised in appeal, but Mitch only turns to provide lip service to a question. He knows soon enough, which is briskly confirmed by the umpire with a shake of his head, that the ball has pitched outside leg, so it’s not out. Besides, Mitch would hazard a guess that it swung too much. Sometimes he can be too lucky, and that’s something that he’ll have to control as he adjusts to bowling at Newlands once again. Mitch has done it all before, though, and he’ll happily do it again. Finally, Petersen gets him away, but the fielders scurry with haste.


	64. Chapter 64

Joe is perched atop a bar stool while the rain thuds down. He only glances up by chance and spots Mitch, ambling into the bar wearing a T-shirt and jeans, given that the weather’s turned cooler with the arrival of rain. Still, it’s nowhere near England, and Joe’s pretty comfortable.  
“Hello,” he greets Mitch when he gets close enough to hear, sliding himself onto the bar stool next door.  
“Hi there,” Mitch replies. “Shame about this weather, hey.”  
He pans his eyes around the bar, briefly looking towards the window panes which rain is teeming down.  
“Yeah,” Joe confirms, sounding a little defeated, before glancing over the counter he’s leaning on.

Mitch studies Joe’s expression, attempting to decipher whether or not his friend is actually terribly disappointed, and to what extent. He ponders whether or not he should often to buy Joe a drink.  
“Would you like a drink?” Mitch offers, making his decision.  
“Yeah, that would be great, thanks,” Joe accepts. “Your shout.”

He grins cheekily. A smile comes onto Mitch’s lips, as well, as they lock eyes for a moment, before Joe rocks on his stool.  
“What would you like?” Mitch queries.  
Joe reaches for the folded menu, tucked behind a dispenser of serviettes. Mitch giggles a little nervously, but he doesn’t mind at all, because he knows that their days together will be numbered.  
“Beer doesn’t seem appropriate,” Joe comments. “You’ve got to win to earn a beer.”  
Mitch isn’t sure if that’s necessarily true, but he’ll run with it.

“Fair enough,” he replies, voice a little quiet.  
Joe jabs the tip of his finger at a particular menu item. Mitch widens his eyes slightly, leaning over closer in anticipation.  
“The blue martini,” Joe announces. “I could do with that.”  
Mitch scoffs. Joe folds the menu again and hands it back over for Mitch to survey. He accepts it with mumbled thanks.  
“That’s a little out of a blue,” Mitch remarks.  
Joe looks at him, eyes wide open.

Mitch cocks one eyebrow to indicate that the pun has been intended, prompting Joe to laugh wildly.  
“That’s a good one,” he praises. “Very, very good.”  
“I try,” Mitch insists, before scanning his eyes down the menu to select his own drink.  
Finally, he glances up and folds it back over.

“You know what?” Mitch tells Joe. “I’ll have the same.”  
Joe upturns his lips.  
“Fair choice,” he praises.   
Joe reaches into his pocket and fetches his wallet.  
“I’m happy to shout myself,” he offers. “I have the feeling that we won’t want a second drink after that much food colouring.”


	65. Chapter 65

Yorkshire awake in Cape Town, and Joe suspects that the jolt he feels in his heart as soon as his yes open is echoed by his teammates. He rolls over onto his side. Joe spots Jonny, already awake in the opposite bed, and staring at his phone. Grinning, he calmly places down his phone atop the chest of drawers positioned between the beds.  
“Congratulations,” Jonny wishes. “You’ve been selected for England.”  
Joe gasps, blue eyes widening.  
“You’re joking,” he insists.  
Jonny shakes his head as he sits up.

“Yes, Joe, I’m joking,” he remarks with sincerely.  
Jonny rests against the wall.  
“No, I’m not joking,” he insists.  
Jonny picks up his phone.

He offers it in Joe’s direction.  
“Check for yourself,” Jonny suggests.  
Joe’s looking straight at Jonny as he accepts his teammate’s phone, with the list of the England squad on the screen. He scans down, accustomed to waiting, and then he finally finds his name – Joseph Edward Root, selected for England to tour India for Test matches. Joe can feel Jonny watches him, smiling with humble pride.  
“My goodness,” Joe gushes, suddenly much more quiet. “You weren’t joking.”

Jonny shakes his head.  
“Of course not,” he insists. “You’re on the plane, at least.”  
Remembering his friend, Joe carefully scrolls up the list, to confirm that Jonny has been selected as well. Finally, he beams. Joe’s flooded with happiness, like all of his dreams have been realised, even though he knows that he’s still a way away from an England cap, let alone establishing himself in an international career. With Jonny’s phone still in his hand, he leans back against the wall. Joe’s a little dazed, finding the wall closer than he thought it was.

He narrowly avoids bumping his head. Joe checks for the window frame, to make sure that he’s safe. He doesn’t even think that he’ll feel it, though, given how happy he is. Joe can’t see his own smile, of course, given that the only mirror in their shared room is in the small en suite. Yet, every time he looks across at Jonny’s grin, he senses that that’s what he looks like, too.  
“Congratulations, lad,” he echoes, then rises from bed. “Unfortunately, we’re travelling in only a couple of hours.”  
Joe lowers the phone to the mattress, brought a little back to earth.  
“I’m going to have the first shower, if you don’t mind,” Jonny questions.

“That’s fine,” Joe permits.  
Jonny nods his head with thanks. He ambles across the room to the bathroom door and slides it closed behind him. Jonny’s phone still in hand, Joe places it down on the bedside chest of drawers, swapping it for his own so that he can start making calls. There are so many people with whom he wants to share his happy news, including Mitch.

+

Mitch and Joe sit opposite each other, slumped against the bed and the wall respectively. The Australian’s gaze is fixed onto the Yorkshireman’s knee, unable to meet his eye.   
“I went out with them,” Mitch confesses, “but I only had one drink and then I left, I came back.”  
Joe’s blue eyes are a little wide, and he eventually nods his head to convince Mitch to carry on, even though he’s not watching.  
“Pat wasn’t there, either,” he adds.  
A little bit of a nervous smile creeps onto Mitch’s lips, not sure whether or not he ought to tell Joe why. They’re friends, though, and he trusts him, deeply.  
“Pat came with Becky,” Mitch mentions.

“Ah, the Yorkshire lass,” Joe interjects, in recollection. “Are sparks flying?”  
He giggles softly.  
“Yeah,” Mitch agrees.  
He finally meets Joe’s blue eyes, and realises that he’s not too scared for his friend.

“Yeah, you could definitely say that,” Mitch confirms. “Pat took her home with him last night.”  
“So?” Joe checks, briefly making a lewd gesture with his hands.  
Mitch laughs with a hint of cringing, feeling his cheeks burn tomato.  
“Well, a gentleman never tells,” he insists with a smirk, “but maybe Pat’s not as much of a gentleman as we thought.”


	66. Chapter 66

Mitch leans back against the pillows on his hotel room bed, with the phone against his ear. It’s his first night back in Durban after an excursion to forget to Cape Town. Mitch calls Alyssa, even though he’s not quite sure what time it is back in Australia. He really should know by now, because he’s been away long enough to start to get the hang of things, but he’s been thrown off-balance. Mitch listens to the phone ringing, increasingly frustration bubbling within him. Finally, Alyssa answers and he audibly breathes out with relief.  
“I’m sorry,” Mitch apologises immediately. “I don’t know what time it is, but thank you for answering.”

He rubs his bare feet over the sheets. Mitch is feeling self-conscious that he would bother Alyssa.  
“Is everything alright?” she wants to know.  
Mitch nods his head, even though he knows she can’t see him.  
“Yeah, I guess,” he answers. “I was out with the Marshes, but there’s no problem for me, I went home after one drink.”

Mitch pauses.  
“I guess I feel a little responsible for what happened to them,” he admits.  
Alyssa scoffs. Mitch doesn’t take it personally, because he knows that she’s not challenging him, and even if she was, he’d happily take it. Alyssa’s usually right, so Mitch doesn’t mind.  
“Mitch, you’re not responsible for them,” she insists. “Even if you would have made the same decisions.”  
“Thank you,” Mitch replies, clearing his throat. “I really appreciate that you’d say that, I love you.”  
Over the phone, he can hear Alyssa taking a deep breath.

+

There aren’t very many people at the Durban ground when Mitch arrives. He expects that more will come. The Sydney Sixers are playing the Mumbai Indians, after Yorkshire’s game. While it may not be a home match, the players involved should bring spectators. Hopefully, Mitch reckons, but he doesn’t really know. He emits a soft sigh. Mitch turns around to head back into the dressing room. He has to open the door to get back in, with a security guard keeping watch, standing at the top of the stairs which lead down to the field of play. Mitch reaches for the silver door knob, but it opens in front of him before he can complete the task himself.

“Hi, Hadds,” he greets their wicketkeeper, who is holding the door ajar.  
“Hello,” Hadds replies.  
They stand there, awkwardly. Eventually, Mitch takes a step inside. He walks across the dressing room, which they’re sharing with the Yorkshire boys for the space of the afternoon.

“Hello there,” Joe greets Mitch.  
It’s like being back at his second home, even though he’s in a completely different county.  
“Hi,” Mitch replies. “It’s good to be back.”  
Joe briefly pulls an expression of bemusement before he realises what he means.

“Yes,” he agrees. “It is.”  
Joe wanders over towards the locker area and seat which they’re sharing.  
“It is rather cosy,” he notes. “I didn’t realise that your boys would be coming in this afternoon.”  
Mitch grins modestly.

“We like to be prepared,” he answers.  
“Yeah,” Joe confirms. “You can say that again.”  
Mitch smiles, taking it as a compliment of the Australians’ ethic.  
“Thanks,” he murmurs, as Joe walks away, distracted by the toss taking place.

+

Mitch and Joe stand on the hotel balcony. They’re both hunched a little forward. Mitch and Joe are positioned about half a metre apart.  
“I’ll miss you,” they both admit, almost in unison with each other.  
Four eyes dart up to lock with each other, before they laugh in time as well. It’s immensely relieving for Mitch. He doesn’t want Joe to share his fears, though, but it makes him feel just a little better about holding them when he knows that they’re shared by Joe.  
“I have your number,” Joe reminds, “and you have mine.”  
“That’s true,” Mitch confirms, “and I promise you let you know if it changes.”

“Good,” Joe replies, with a nod of his head.  
The two young men look straight ahead, out at the city which surrounds them. Durban is a beachside city, a place where Mitch feels at home. He looks to his side at Joe, to wonder if he feels the same. They come from such different places.  
“I’d love you to come to Sydney one day,” Mitch blurts out.  
Joe beams at him.  
“That would be nice,” he agrees. “Hopefully the end of next year.”  
Mitch breathes out.  
“Here’s hoping,” he affirms, taking in the vista of Durban.

**Author's Note:**

> You can read about Mitchell Starc's adventures here: http://www.foxsports.com.au/cricket/australia-test-seamer-mitchell-starc-heads-home-after-being-deported-just-hours-before-yorkshire-debut/story-e6frf3g3-1226350555299


End file.
